


Nohrian Lullaby

by Mintywolf



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Backstory, Family Drama, Illustrations, Intrigue, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Prequel, Sibling Rivalry, garon the family man, please enjoy this artwork of pudgy baby camilla, terrible Nohrian childhood, the Waifu Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 79,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintywolf/pseuds/Mintywolf
Summary: Camilla never wanted the throne. Her mother, however, had greater ambitions for her.A story of childhood amid the elegance and treachery of the Nohrian royal court.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based in part on support conversations between Camilla and Sakura that I wrote for UnassumingVenusaur's Gay Fates hack, which alludes to events of Camilla's childhood in Nohr. You can see it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1B0kSu4N0U).

It was raining over Windmire again. From the deep sill of the castle window, Camilla was watching the raindrops slide down the wavy old glass, trying to follow the same droplet with her finger from one diamond-shaped pane to another. It was a heavy, wearisome rain, and it felt as though it had been going on for days.

One of her hair bows pressed up against the glass as she leaned her head against it. The pin tugged her hair and dug into her scalp, and she wanted to take it off, but she knew Mother would scold her if she did.

“Xander,” she complained at length, “I’m _bored_. Can we go outside?”

“Not today,” her big brother replied, over the top of his book.

“But why?”

“It’s raining.”

“But why it’s always raining?”

“It’s not _always_ raining,” he said, which was true, but it seemed that more often than not, the sky over the capital city was dark and bleak with clouds. “But it does rain a lot,” he conceded, “I think it’s because Nohr was found by the Dusk Dragon. You’ll learn about it when you start school,” he added, importantly. Xander had only recently begun school himself, and he seemed to enjoy being known to all as a student more than he actually enjoyed being one.

Camilla slid from the windowsill with an exaggerated sigh, dragging along her companion, a plush wyvern nearly as big as her three-year-old self. She hugged the doll against herself for a moment, then flung it to the floor in impatience. Immediately overcome with remorse for her impulsive cruelty towards the button-eyed creature, she picked it up again and cradled it, more tenderly, in her arms.

The nursery playroom was stocked with a dragon’s hoard of toys to accommodate the caprices of several royal children, but for the time it contained only two. Their sister Grace had died when Camilla was too young to remember her, and none of the babies were old enough to be worth playing with yet. A rainy afternoon’s worth of playthings cluttered the floor – painted ponies, wooden swords, a miniature pirate ship strewn about in careless abundance. But it was quiet now amid the sleepy dreariness of a darkening late afternoon, and the only sounds came from the rustle of the fire on the hearth, the click of old Nanny’s crochet needles, and the ceaseless drumming of the rain against the windows.

Holding the wyvern high to keep from tripping over its beribboned tail, Camilla toddled across the playroom floor. Carefully she navigated around a battlefield of fallen toy knights and a sundered fortress of wooden blocks to the deep armchair where her brother was enthroned with his book.

She adored her big brother, and the days when she was allowed to tag after him on his various princely doings. He tolerated this with a remarkable generosity of patience, and would shorten his stride to allow her pudgy little legs to keep up with his as they made their way through the austere stony halls of Castle Krakenburg to his fencing lessons, or on outings to the gardens, or to the mews to see the falcons, or to the stables to admire the horses, or even, as they were today, just to the playroom to entertain themselves.

“What Xander is reading?” she asked.

“A history book. It’s about famous Nohrian knights.”

“Is there any girls?”

She leaned against the red velvet arm of the chair to get a better look, and thoughtfully he turned a few pages and tilted the book to let her see. There was an illustration in ink of a grand lady sitting astride an equally grand wyvern, clad in royal armor and bearing aloft an ornate battleaxe shaped like a dragon’s wing. Camilla _ooohed_ appreciatively. The lady was not as pretty as Mother, but she was very interesting-looking.

“Queen Marzia,” Xander read aloud, carefully sounding out each word with scholarly precision, “a wyvern lord of the Second Era, was the first to wield the leg . . . legend . . . legendary axe, Böl . . . Bölverk . . .”

“Xander!” exclaimed Camilla with sudden inspiration, “Let’s go to the stables! I want to see the baby wyverns!”

“Father doesn’t want us near the wyverns while they’re brooding,” Xander reminded her.

“Indeed he does _not_,” Nanny agreed from the corner where she sat comfortably at her yarnwork, “You’d be no more than a wee morsel for those cranky beasts. Besides, I don’t believe the eggs are ready to hatch yet.”

“A wyvern wouldn’t eat Camilla,” said Xander quickly, for his sister’s lower lip was beginning to wobble, “She has the dragon blood, too, just as I do.”

Nanny chuckled. “And the wyverns consider her kin of theirs, then? I see. Well, you can take her to see the whelps when they’re hatched, but there’s no reason for the pair of you to be poking about the stables right now, royal blood or no.”

The prince closed his book as Camilla slouched against the armchair with a sigh of defeat. “You can ride my horse, if you like,” he offered charitably.

Xander's horse was, of course, only made of wood, but it was a very fine one and he was very proud of it. Taller than Camilla herself, the wooden steed stood poised on its polished rockers with its head arched in an attitude of majesty. It had a saddle and bridle like a real knight’s horse, and the trappings bore the emblem of the royal house of Nohr. Setting down her wyvern, gently this time, Camilla reached up and stroked the painted wooden neck as she had often seen her brother do.

He lifted her up with a grunt of exertion, for his sister was a sturdily-built child, and succeeded in plumpfing her down in the saddle. She gave a delighted squeal and clapped her hands together. “Hold on tight,” he told her, and when she had done so he began to rock the horse for her.

Her brother was three years older than she, tall already, and he wore a dark silver circlet upon his golden curls, for he was the crown prince, and would one day be King. Although they had different mothers, King Garon was father to both of them, and somewhere back in the opaque depths of his ancestry was the Dusk Dragon. The blood of that mighty and mysterious lineage, the children had been taught, flowed in both of them. Neither of them was very certain about what that meant, but it seemed a grand thing, to be descendants of the dragon god.

“Xander,” asked Camilla, “Why Nohr was lost? Before the Dusk Dragon found it.” He did not have an answer for this, and stopped rocking the horse for a moment to think.

“There you are, my darling girl,” crooned a voice from the doorway. Camilla froze. It was Mother.

Camilla’s mother was the most beautiful woman in Nohr. She knew this with innate certainty, the way she knew that candies were sweet, and snow was cold, and being struck hurt. She knew it in the particular way Father smiled on her, in the devotion of her servants, in the way she commanded every gaze of every room she entered. Her daughter loved her, with a helpless desperation that bordered on fear. When her attention shone on her it was like when a rare and perfect shaft of sunlight pierced through the cloud-dulled sky of Nohr, longed-for but almost too bright to bear.

Mother put out a hand for her to come and take, with a gesture that was both inviting and imperious. Amethysts of the same deep hue as her hair glinted from the rings upon her white fingers. “Camilla, sweeting, come along. It’s time to go.”

Camilla tightened her hands in the rocking horse’s mane. It was strange to see her mother in the middle of the day. She longed to run to her, to put out her arms to be held, to be kissed and coddled and made to feel precious, but her heart had begun to race with uncertainty. Suppose Mother drew her skirts back from her, scolded her for running, held her arms out of reach, turned her face away from her kisses? The thought of her attention being offered and then withheld because she did not receive the gift in the right way made her afraid to take it at all.

“But I want to play with Xander,” she said at last, quietly. He was safe. He did not fill her with a delirium of joy like her mother did, but he would also never, ever hurt her feelings, even by accident.

The firelight sparkle in Mother’s violet eyes sharpened to a glitter. “I’m sure the crown prince has better things to do than indulge _you_. Come along,” she repeated curtly, “I shan’t ask again.”

“Best do as your mother says, lovie,” said Nanny mildly, but there was pity in her voice, for some reason.

Slowly Camilla slid from the rocking horse and crossed the room, leaving the circle of firelight and the warmth of her brother’s presence. Now her mother would be cross with her. She reached out to take the outstretched hand, but Mother’s fingers closed firmly around her wrist, and whisked her away with a tug. Xander watched them go.

Camilla trotted to keep up with the pace set by the velvet rustle of Mother’s skirts. “Where are we going, Mother?”

“To my chambers. There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“Be patient, and you shall see.”

“Mother!” Realizing that she had left her wyvern back in the playroom, she began to tug against her mother’s hand, but the grip on her wrist did not yield. Then the rustling skirts came to a halt, not because of Camilla’s protests, but because of the silkenly gliding swish of another approaching skirt. This one had a train, and Camilla and her mother were obliged to stand to the side to let its wearer pass, with her retinue. The gown was silvery blue, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light of the hanging lamps as it stopped in its glide before them.Mother dipped her head in a curtsy before this finery, prompting her daughter to do the same.

“Good evening, Lady Lavinia,” a smooth voice spoke from far above her head, with cool politeness, “And is this little Camilla?”

She felt Mother’s hands hastily adjust one of her hair ribbons. “It is indeed, Your Majesty, how kind of you to remember.”

Camilla looked up, from the embroidered satin skirt, to the brocaded bodice, the gleaming torc clasping the slender white neck, and finally the handsome face of a tall woman whose summer-gold curls bore a crown. She felt a little thrill of pride, because although Queen Katerina was very beautiful, she was not as beautiful as Mother.

“Camilla, dear, do you know who this is?”

Camilla nodded, drawing back against her a little in sudden shyness. “You’re Xander’s mommy.” She was rewarded with a flutter of laughter from the Queen, and a surreptitious pinch from her mother.

“Now now, darling,” the sharpness in Mother’s voice was sheathed in velvet tones before the Queen, but Camilla could still hear it, “Show the proper respect to Her Royal Majesty.”

She had been taught what to do in this situation. Taking hold of the edges of her skirt, she performed her best and most elegant curtsy, without even a wobble.

“What a charming child,” smiled the Queen.

Mother waited for the entourage of shimmering gowns and bright armor to pass by along the hallway before taking hold of Camilla’s hand again, just a little tighter than before, and continuing on her way, just a little more briskly. Camilla could hear voices down the hall and looked back the way they had come. Xander was there, talking to his mother. He must have been following her, for he was carrying her wyvern. She waved, just before being yanked around a corner and out of sight.

In her mother’s gold and burgundy parlor the aforementioned someone was waiting for them, holding his hat in his hands and looking incongruously shabby against the carefully-curated finery of Mother’s rooms. He bowed at their arrival. “Lady Lavinia.”

Camilla waited hopefully for her mother to call for tea to entertain her guest, thinking of the accompanying tray of little pink-iced cookies, but instead she dismissed her maid entirely, leaving the three of them alone in the room.

“This is the little princess, then?” asked the man.

Mother seated herself on the parlor sofa, drawing Camilla close beside her within the curve of one graceful arm. “Of course. Come here, dear, and let the doctor look at you.”

Camilla looked from her mother to the shabby man with the hat, puzzled. She did not feel ill, and he did not look like any healer she had seen before. Then Mother removed the two oversized bows she kept pinned in Camilla’s hair, something she had never done in front of anyone else before. The doctor leaned down to look, and gave a low whistle. “I’ll be!”

Underneath the bows, just visible poking through the lilac-colored ringlets, were the baby nubs of Camilla’s dragon horns.

The doctor opened a worn leather bag he had brought with him. “Well, it’s a routine procedure fer goats ‘n’ sheep, but it’s usually done when they’re only a few weeks old, mind. A pity you didn’t bring me in sooner. Still, I reckon I can clip ‘em easy enough, an’ cauterize the stumps.”

“Will it leave a flaw?”

The doctor scratched his sandpaper chin. “I don’t reckon. Her hair should cover any scarrin’.”

Camilla felt her mother relax marginally. “All right. Then you may proceed.”

The doctor rummaged around in his bag and come up with an iron tool that looked like a short fire-poker, flattened like the base of a chess piece on one end. He placed this in the hearth amid the coals.

“Mother . . .” Camilla began uneasily. She had only a patchy understanding of what was being discussed, but she had a feeling that it wasn’t good. Instead of replying, her mother pressed her down so that her head was resting in her lap, and began to stroke her hair in an attitude of fondness, but her hands were too swift and too firm. Camilla put her fingers in her mouth and watched the poker turn red.

When it was glowing-hot, the doctor took out a short, curved pair of shears, and approached the couch. Camilla looked at the advancing shears with widening eyes. “Hold still,” her mother purred over her, but she did not. Those notched iron blades were coming for _her_. She struggled against the pressure of her mother’s hands, but could not get away. “Hold still!” Mother repeated, no longer gently.

“This won’t take but a moment,” the doctor reassured her, and the shears gripped the base of one of her horns. Pinned down by Mother’s unyielding hands, all she could do was tremble.

“What is going on here?” A voice of thunder shook the room, echoed by the slam of the flung-open door. The King of Nohr filled the doorway, dark and imposing as the stormy sky outside, his face a marble carving of godlike fury. Xander was beside him. Freeing herself at last, Camilla flew across the room. She fell down, got up, and ran into her father’s arms.

He swept her up as lightly as a doll and allowed her to bury her face in the ermine trim of his robe as she began to sob, in terror and relief. “There, there, little one. You’re safe now.” His hand patted her back protectively. “Xander told me there was something amiss. I am glad he alerted me in time to whatever treachery is afoot here. Who is this man?” Camilla felt his voice, which had softened just for her, sharpen to a sonorous ring like the edge of his battleaxe. “Explain yourself, Lavinia!”

“There is no treachery, my lord,” Mother replied lightly, although there was the slenderest tremor of unease in her voice, “This man is simply a doctor. I summoned him here for Camilla’s sake.”

“He does not look like one of the palace healers. From where do you hail, churl, and what is wrong with Camilla that needed the interference of a . . . _provincial _doctor?

“I’m f-from the stables, sire. The lady here brought me in to take care of the little girl’s, ah . . .” Camilla turned to look at him with a hiccup. The doctor was sheepishly holding his forefingers up to the sides of his head, curled in an approximation of horns. “It’s . . . it’s a routine procedure . . . fer goats ‘n’ sheep.”

Father cupped her head with his big hand, and with his thumb he smoothed her hair until he found one of the budding horns that Mother so hated.

“You never told me of this, Lavinia.”

“I thought only to please you, my king,” Mother beseeched with her voice of honey. She came to his side on little steps and arched herself gracefully to look up at him. “Forgive my secrecy, I . . . I was ashamed. I thought you would be displeased with a flawed daughter.” Tilting her head, she cast her eyes demurely downward, hiding them behind the heavy fringe of her lashes. Normally the gesture was all that Father needed to forgive her any slight, but not this time, it seemed.

“Flawed?” he roared, shaking off her hand. “This is a manifestation of her divine dragon lineage! Of her sacred blood! How dare you bring this . . . _animal_ _butcher_ here to maim my child?”

Mother began to cry too then, and her tears made her so heartbreakingly lovely that no one, not king, nor commoner, nor boy prince, nor her own crying daughter could bear it. “No, Father!” pleaded Camilla, “Don’t! Don’t make Mother cry!”

Father let out a sigh that carried the low rumble of a growl. “You,” he addressed the fidgeting doctor, “You are dismissed from the services of the castle. I do not wish to see you within these walls again. Had you harmed one hair on this child’s head, your own would have been forfeit. Go now, and be grateful for your undeserved life.”

“Yes, sire. Th-thank you, sire.” He bowed so low Camilla thought he might fall over, and scurried out the door without his tools or his hat.

“And you . . .” setting Camilla down, he reached out to take Mother’s face in his hands. “Don’t cry, my love. You meant well. Perhaps you did not know.”

Camilla drifted to her brother, who was still holding her wyvern. She took it and leaned her head against him, longing for reassurance from someone who made sense to her. The two siblings stood hand in hand, watching the inscrutable adult drama playing out over their heads draw to a close.

The king leaned down to kiss his favored mistress, in forgiveness and benediction. Xander looked away, but Camilla did not, and so she was the only one who saw the secret smile cross her mother’s face, on which the pretty tears were already drying.

It was her earliest memory.


	2. Chapter Two

“Sit up straighter,” commanded Lavinia. Obligingly Camilla straightened her back as her mother circled the little table, scrutinizing her posture and mannerisms for flaws. A late afternoon palace dinner was laid out on the table before her, but as it was the object of an etiquette lesson, it had been drained of any enjoyment. “Begin again.”

The princess stared at her place setting with its ranks of forks and spoons arranged like soldiers at attention, feeling the weight of her mother’s gaze upon her. Carefully she lifted the round silver soupspoon, positioning her fingers on the handle with conscious precision. When she was not immediately corrected, she wondered if she had gotten it right this time, and dipped it hopefully into her soup.

“No!” interjected Lavinia, before the spoonful of soup could reach her mouth. “Remember to dip your spoon on the _near_ side of the bowl, and skim _away_ from you.” Taking the spoon from her daughter’s hand, she emptied and returned it to its starting position. “Now. Begin again.”

Suppressing a sigh, Camilla picked it up and tried again, and at last her handling of the spoon was proper enough to reward her with one delicate sip of soup. It was cold. She returned it to the bowl and folded her hands on the edge of the table, looking up at her mother for her verdict. Lavinia’s smile sent a tingling rush of relief through her, as it always did. “Very good, dear.”

Encouraged, Camilla reached out and picked up her bread, but her victory had made her too bold.

“No!” snapped her mother. “We do not bite bread in the air. You must leave your bread on your plate and break off one piece at a time. _Then_ you may lift it to your mouth.” Dropping the bread, Camilla put her face in her hands. She felt the silverware rattle as Lavinia rapped the tablecloth with her knuckles. “Elbows off the table!”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” She removed the offending elbows, but did not uncover her face, because she could feel the sting of encroaching tears in her eyes. Lavinia circled the table again and came to her side as she fought to keep the shuddering of her breath from betraying her distress.

“There, there, sweeting. Don’t carry on so. I promise this is all for your own good. You must understand how important it is for your manners to be _perfect_, if you are to stand out as the best of your father’s children.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You want to be Queen of Nohr someday, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother,” Camilla replied automatically, but it was not true.

“There’s my good girl.”

“But Mother . . . Won’t Xander be king? He’s the eldest, and . . . it’s his mother who is the queen.” She asked this cautiously, for her mother tended not to like to talk about Queen Katerina, but the question had been nagging at her. Lavinia sighed, and her voice took on a lilting emphasis, as though repeating a lesson to a particularly dull child.

“Yes, as things are now, your brother is next in line for the throne. But your father, in his boundless generosity, recognizes each and every one of his beloved children as his legal heirs. That means that after Xander, the line of succession falls to you, my darling.”

Camilla fidgeted with the napkin in her lap. “But . . . if I’m to be queen, that means Xander would have to die.” Lavinia said nothing. “I don’t want him to die! If that’s what it means, then . . . then I don’t want to be the queen! He’d be a better ruler than I would, anyway.”

She stared down at the tablecloth as the weight of her mother’s silence pressed on her. There was a pattern of Nohrian roses woven finely into the linen that she wanted to trace with her finger, but she didn’t dare. “Very well,” Lavinia said at last, curtly, “If that’s how you feel, then there’s no point in continuing this lesson, is there?”

“No, Mother! I mean, yes. I wish to continue. I’m sorry; I’ll do it right this time . . .”

“No, no. You’ve already made yourself quite clear.” She gestured for her waiting maid to take away the dishes. “You are dismissed.” Leaving her at the table, she whisked off to her study as though her daughter, no longer worth her attention, was not even there.

Camilla slid heavily from her chair. The maid had departed with the dishes, leaving the room empty of anyone but herself and the lingering presence of her mother’s disapproval. Putting her fingers in her mouth, she sucked indecisively on her fingertips. She knew that when Lavinia was in a mood like this there was no point in asking her permission to leave their apartments, but she felt she could not bear the loneliness of staying at home for a moment longer.

Deciding in favor of fleeing, she slipped out into the hall as quietly as she could. The wing of Castle Krakenburg that was home was divided into suites to house King Garon’s mistresses and children, of which there were many. Lavinia’s apartments, befitting her position as the royal favorite, were the finest and closest to the king’s own, and so Camilla had to travel some distance through the arched black marble halls to reach the rooms of Lady Phyllida.

A neatly-dressed parlormaid answered her knock and showed her in with a curtsy. She came upon Lady Phyllida in her parlor, with all the curtains in the room open to catch what little light could filter down from the dim afternoon sky. The room was cheerful despite the outside gloom, furnished in tones of cream and dusky rose. Everything was plush, and pretty, and comfortable-looking, including the lady herself who sat at an easel near the window, with a watercolor palette to one side and a tea tray to the other. Her daughter, Princess Samantha, was stretched out on a cushion nearby with a teacup of milk at her elbow, contentedly turning the pages of a picture book.

“Her Highness, Princess Camilla,” announced the maid.

“Milla!” exclaimed Samantha in delight. She hopped to her feet with the lightness of a chickadee and fluttered to her to fling her arms around her in a hug. Camilla returned it, feeling the tension her mother had left with her dissolve into the warmth of her little sister’s affection.

Samantha was six, two years younger than Camilla herself. Although close in age to her sister, she was tiny in comparison, and her babydoll appearance was augmented by the ruffled pinafore and the big hair bow in which her mother had dressed her. Her hair was cropped close around her chin in a bob, emphasizing the roundness of her face. Every time she hugged her Camilla had to resist the urge to squish her until she squeaked.

“How nice to see you, Camilla,” Lady Phyllida greeted her with a smile, and it was easy to see that she meant it. “Why, you look troubled, dear. Come tell me what’s the matter.” Setting down her paintbrush, she opened her arms to receive a hug as well, and Camilla came to her gratefully. Samantha’s mother was warm and soft and smelled like honeysuckle. She had the same mild blue eyes and dimpled, rosy cheeks as her daughter, and her honey-brown hair was swept up with a comb that had flowers of pink tourmaline set into it.

She listened, cooing understandingly, as Camilla related that afternoon’s struggle with table manners. “There are ever so many rules, aren’t there?” she agreed, “And so many spoons and forks!”

“So many!” echoed Samantha, who had come over to lend a sympathetic ear.

“But you’ll learn, before you know it. You’ll be an elegant lady like your mother someday. Here, won’t you have a cookie, dear?”

“Oh! Yes, please.”

She gave each girl one of the heart-shaped, jam-filled confections from her tea tray, and took one for herself. Reaching for her teacup, she gave a little cry of surprise, for her paintbrush was resting in it. Camilla tensed instinctively, for Lavinia’s mood would have soured upon discovering such a mistake, but Lady Phyllida began to laugh.

“Oh, dear! I really ought not to take tea while painting – look, Mama mixed up her teacup and her brush glass again.”

Samantha giggled. “Mama! That’s silly.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it. Silly Mama. Oh, well! I’ve heard that some artists paint with tea. So, what adventures do you two have planned for today?”

Samantha looked up at Camilla expectantly. Of the two of them, Camilla was the better adventurer, and the planning usually fell to her. She laid a sugar-dusted finger on her lip thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe we could go to the stables and see the horses,” she decided. She really wanted to look at the wyverns, but she knew that her gentle little sister was a bit afraid of them, and liked the horses better.

“That sounds splendid,” said Lady Phyllida. Drawing her daughter against her skirts, she wiped a smudge of raspberry jam from her cheek with a handkerchief and sent her on her way with a kiss. “Have fun, my lambs! Samantha, mind your sister. She’ll look out for you.”

Samantha took Camilla’s hand and held on tight as she led the way to the upper floors, for the castle’s mazy tangle of stairways and corridors were dimly-lit and a little scary. But she would happily follow her anywhere, and when Samantha’s hand was so trustingly in hers Camilla felt more like the self she was in her little sister’s eyes – a leader, confident and brave.

Castle Krakenburg was built more for defense than beauty, a black granite spike at the bottom of a circular quarry carved deep into the earth at the heart of the capital city of Windmire. Tiers of defensive structures and military buildings – gatehouses, barracks, stables, and guard posts – ringed the outer walls, connected to the castle by a spiderweb of bridges and walkways. The horses and wyverns were stabled close to ground level, and therefore one of the higher floors.

A stablehand granted them entry, for they were daughters of King Garon and allowed to go almost anywhere they liked. Samantha released Camilla’s hand to make her way along one row of stalls, stopping to greet each of their occupants by the names engraved on brass nameplates on the doors, and reaching up to pet every velvet nose that leaned down to her.

“Someday I’m going to be a troubadour, like Mama,” she announced to a speckled mare, “Then I can have my own pony, and I can sing, and I can heal our soldiers in battle. What about you, Milla? Are you going to be a sorceress, like your mama?”

“I don’t know,” Camilla replied doubtfully, “Can I be a sorceress who rides a wyvern? And can I have an axe? I’ve never heard of a sorceress who could do that.”

Samantha giggled as the mare began to inspect her hair ribbon for treats. “Maybe you could be the first! You could be a wyvern axe sorceress!”

They came to the end of the row, where a black pony with white socks stood in a capacious stall, looking lonely. “Oh, it’s Xander’s pony,” said Camilla, “Poor dear, it wasn’t your fault.”

Their brother was in bed recovering from a broken leg. Something had spooked the unlucky beast while he was out riding, causing it to bolt. Ordinarily this would not have been a problem for Xander, for the prince was a capable rider, but this time something had gone wrong with his saddle, and he had fallen. Later it was discovered that the fastenings had worn right through. For their carelessness in letting the wear on the tack go unnoticed, the stablehands on duty were meant to be executed as well as the hapless pony, but Xander, even through his pain, had spoken up in their defense and refused to let any of them come to harm.

“Poor pony. Poor Xander,” echoed Samantha. “I hope he can ride again soon.”

“There was that other time, too,” Camilla said thoughtfully, “When he got hurt training because someone put out real lances instead of blunted ones by accident. At least, that’s what the story was.”

“Do you think . . .” Samantha looked up at her fearfully, “Did someone do it on purpose? Who would want to hurt Xander?”

“I don’t know . . . enemies of Nohr, perhaps.”

“Do you think it’s the Hoshidans?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will they come here?”

Camilla put her arms around her little sister. “If they do, I’ll protect you! I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll fight the Hoshidan army if I have to.”

“I can help! Once I learn to use a staff, and get a pony. And you can get a wyvern, and an axe, and we can fight together!”

They dashed around each other in a flurry of excitement over their plans for fending off an imaginary Hoshidan advance, until they were ousted from the stables for riling up the horses.

Undaunted, the two girls ran outside and along a series of bridges to the terraced castle gardens, shielded from the fickle weather of the rest of Windmire by a dragon vein embedded in the rock beneath a fountain. This locus of the First Dragon’s power kept the climate temperate and the gardens thriving all year round, even when the sky above was dark. Camilla knew it was under the fountain because she could feel its latent power thrumming through her blood and humming in her horns whenever she got close to it, although she could not control it herself. Someday, she would. Samantha could not feel it at all yet, but she liked the fountain with its carved marble dragon, and took off her shoes and stockings to wade in it.

They had a secret hideout between a row of tall lilac bushes and a terrace wall. There was just enough room for a child to crawl beneath the low-hanging leafy branches between shrubs, and the space behind them was big enough for them to play and hide their treasures, peacefully enclosed and hidden from adult eyes by rustling walls of leaves and flowers. Camilla leaned against the wall in the densely fragrant shade and looked up at the far sky while Samantha dug around in the earth at the base of one of the bushes until she found her treasure box. This was an old jewelry box with a broken clasp that contained three shiny pebbles, two feathers, a hair ribbon, a single pearl earring missing its hook, and a handful of coins of miscellaneous worth. She added to this hoard a farthing she had found in the fountain, and began diligently reburying it.

“Maybe you can’t sense the dragon vein yet, but you definitely have dragon blood,” Camilla observed wryly, “And a dragon hoard.”

“I’ll share my treasure with _you_,” said Samantha, with a defensive little blush, “I just don’t want Roxana or some of the others to find it.” Wiping the dirt from her hands in the grass, she came to sit next to her. “You have a leaf,” she noticed. She plucked the heart-shaped lilac leaf that was pierced on one of her horns and handed it to her. Camilla laughed and ran her fingers over her horns to make sure she hadn’t picked up any other adornments. She could still feel the tiny notch the veterinary's shears had left there, years ago when she was little.

“Will I have horns too someday?” Samantha asked.

Camilla put her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. “I hope not, for your sake. My mother doesn’t like them. And I can’t wear hats.”

“_I_ like them.” Reaching up, she took hold of one of the lilac branches and shook it, until her sister’s hair was strewn with star-shaped blossoms. “There,” she said with satisfaction, “Now you look like a fairy princess.”

Camilla noticed she was careful not to say “fairy queen,” because Samantha knew she would not like it. She bent down a cluster of lilac flowers and responded in kind, holding it like a wand and bestowing Samantha’s head with blossoms. “Now you do, too.”

They played in the garden until it began to get dark, and then reluctantly made their way back to the castle to return to their respective mothers, parting with promises to see each other the next day. Lavinia looked up from a book when Camilla entered.

“There you are, dear. Gracious! Aren’t you grubby? And what is all over your hair?”

_Tsk-_ing, she called to her maid for a comb and beckoned her daughter to come kneel by her chair. Camilla braced herself as Lavinia began to work the comb through her tousled curls, but this time her hands were gentle, her voice mellow and affectionate. She leaned her head against her mother’s skirts, allowing herself to enjoy the moment. Perhaps she had already forgotten about the incident at the table, or perhaps she was willing to forgive.

“You really ought to take better care of your clothes, my dear. You’re getting too old to be dashing about the way you do, and I’m sure whatever you’re doing to end up in this state is quite unbefitting of a princess. What _do_ you do all day?”

“I’m with Samantha. We just . . . play, mostly.”

“That’s Phyllida’s daughter, yes? Hmm.” The comb snagged on a tangle, and she flicked it out with a little tug, “I don’t like that you’re spending so much time with that child.”

Camilla leaned away from her in dismay. “But Mother! She’s my best friend!”

“It’s her mother I don’t trust.”

“But Lady Phyllida is so kind!”

“That is precisely why I don’t trust her. What reason does she have to be so kind to you? You are the nearest obstacle between her own daughter and the throne.”

Camilla remembered her mother’s earlier words about the line of succession, and felt cold. “She isn’t like that! You don’t understand.” Turning away, she stared sulkily into the fireplace.

“I understand a great deal more than you do about the way things are in Nohr!” Her voice softened, and she began to slide the comb through her hair again, but Camilla did not turn back to her. “You are still young, and I know you have a tender heart, but you ought not to get so . . . attached to your siblings. To become close to someone is to become vulnerable, and there are always those who are looking to exploit that vulnerability.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the more time you spend with your friend Samantha, the more her mother knows of your whereabouts, your routines, the things you like to do. That information is useful to anyone who might wish to do you harm. Then she mollycoddles you and spoils you with sweets – don’t act surprised, dear, I noticed the jam stain on your dress – for what purpose? To earn your trust? To lower your defenses?”

“I . . . I just thought she was just being kind.”

“And I suppose she’s deeply interested in all the silly little things you have to say, isn’t she? Wants to hear _all_ about your life, all your little interests and troubles.” Camilla said nothing. A cold knot of unease was tightening in her middle, and for the second time that day there were tears pricking at her eyes. “What motive could she possible have for wanting to listen to all of that prattle, other than to collect information that could be used against you, or _me_, for that matter?”

“I . . . I just thought . . .” She swallowed hard to steady her voice. “I just thought she liked me.” Spoken aloud, her reasoning sounded so flimsy and naïve that she could not stop the tears from finally welling over and escaping down her face. Of course her mother had to be right. She always was.

Lavinia made a sympathetic noise. “Of course you did, poor dear. You’re so guileless and trusting. But it’s about time you began to understand the way things are, the way people are, in Nohr. I’m sorry it pains you to hear these things, but you must know I’m only looking out for _you_, my darling.”

Camilla sighed. “I know. Thank you, Mother.”

Lavinia’s hand concluded its attention to her hair with a little pat to the top of her head, as though she were pleased with some little chore she had just finished. “Now! Shall I ring for dinner?”


	3. Chapter Three

It was with some apprehension that Camilla knocked on Lady Phyllida’s door the following afternoon. Suppose her mother was right, after all? Suppose Samantha’s mother was only kind to her as a means of lowering her defenses, and learning things about her that could be turned against her as a weapon? Or worse, suppose she was only kind to her out of courtly politeness, and did not really enjoy her company at all?

She hesitated, wondering if perhaps she should make herself scarcer so as not to become a pest, but she could hear the maid approaching on the other side of the door and it would not do to be seen fleeing down the hallway after knocking. Besides, no matter what Lavinia believed about her mother, she could not bring herself to abandon Samantha.

Lady Phyllida greeted her with a smile of such warmth and candor that it immediately seemed silly to have doubted her motives, and Samantha came running to her as though they had been apart for days.

“I’m glad to see you in better spirits today, dear,” Lady Phyllida said, “And how has your lovely mother been?”

“Oh, she’s . . . fine.” She fidgeted while Lady Phyllida waited for her to continue. It had not occurred to her until yesterday how often she did bring up her mother in conversation with others, and how her mother might not like it. “The same as always, I suppose,” she concluded, awkwardly.

“Well, that’s good. Would you like a cookie?”

On her tea table today – safely distanced from her easel – was a pastel pyramid of macarons underneath a little glass dome. She stepped forward eagerly to receive one, but then checked herself and put her hands behind her back. “Oh . . . no, thank you.”

Lady Phyllida paused with her hand halfway to the dome’s glass knob. “No? Are you sure?”

Camilla nodded. She did of course dearly want one of the pretty little confections, but her mother’s warnings made the imagined taste of sugar already turn bitter in her mouth.

“Well, I hate to send you away empty-handed, but I’m afraid it’s nearly Samantha’s naptime.”

“Oh.” So far her visit had been a string of disappointments.

“Milla can have a nap with me, can’t she, Mama?” Samantha suggested hurriedly, looping her arms around Camilla’s waist to avoid letting her get away.

“Why, Milla is too big to want a nap!”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Camilla offered, brightening at the prospect of a sleepover.

Lady Phyllida looked down at their upturned, hopeful faces and gave in with a little laugh. “Well, all right. But you must settle down and sleep! No whispers and no giggling.”

In Samantha’s little bedroom everything was softly blue and white, like the colors of a sky only rarely seen in Nohr. She helped her mother turn down the fluffy counterpane on the bed and plump the pillows, then waited with patient familiarity as Lady Phyllida unbuttoned the back of her dress for her. Camilla watched the lady do this with some surprise, for these were tasks that her own mother would have delegated to her maid.

“Here, dear,” said Lady Phyllida, noticing Camilla struggling with her own dress. As her swift, deft fingers moved down the line of her buttons, she felt a prickle of unease ripple up her back in the opposite direction. She was making herself vulnerable, just as her mother had warned her not to do. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

Lady Phyllida lifted her dress over her head, shook it out, and laid it over the back of a chair, and then went to help her daughter with her petticoats. When both girls were freed of their volumes of clothing down to camisoles and bloomers, she ushered them into bed. Drawing the covers up to their chins, she placed a butterfly-light kiss on each forehead.

Camilla settled down into the feather pillow. She was not really tired, but the coziness of the comfort and affection surrounding her was making her a little drowsy. How could she be in danger, in this soft, pretty room, where every detail, from the ruffled white canopy over the bed to the pile of plush dolls in the corner, told a story of warmth, and safety, and a mother’s love?

Samantha snuggled in next to her so that their heads were touching. Lady Phyllida was going around the room, turning down the lamps. “Mama, will you play your harp?”

“All right. But then you must go right to sleep!”

“We will, we promise.”

She fetched a small troubadour’s harp, and arranging herself in the chair with the grace of long practice, she placed it in her lap and leaned over it, plucking a few quiet notes to check its tune. Then her gentle, skillful fingers spun from the instrument a melody with the cadence of a rocking cradle, and after a few bars she began to sing, in a voice as sweet as her nature. Camilla’s heart hurt to hear it, with an aching wistfulness she did not fully understand. She felt at once loved and unbearably lonely. Her own mother had never sung a lullaby to her.

“_All over the shadowed land  
Night is falling, night is falling.  
Singing out into the dusk,  
__Stars are calling, stars are calling._

_Velvet curtains sweep the hills,  
_ _Pearls shine in the sky,  
_ _And safe inside the castle walls,  
_ _I’ll sing you a lullaby._

_So sleep, my lovely little one,_  
_Dream without fear.  
_ _When the morning comes anew,  
_ _I’ll be here, be here.”_

*

“We should look for secret passages,” announced Camilla, on the following rainy afternoon.

“Where?” As always, Samantha was ready to follow her into a new adventure.

“There’s one in Mother’s room somewhere,” she replied knowledgeably, “I’ve never seen it, but I know it’s there. There’s a secret staircase that connects to Father’s chambers.”

Samantha fidgeted hesitantly. “I don’t know if we should go in Father’s chambers. He might not like that.”

“We don’t have to go all the way in. I just want to explore the staircase. Come on! Mother told me she’d be out all afternoon.”

They usually played at Samantha’s home, or elsewhere in the castle, for Lavinia did not like to have them underfoot, but her rooms were empty now. Even Agnes, her mother’s maid, was out on errands.

Boldly Camilla led the way to her mother’s bedroom, but on the threshold, she hesitated. It was not dark, for the oil lamps were still burning, but it not a place she was often welcomed into. Even though Lavinia was not there, her presence lingered in every detail of the room, like the scent of her perfume. In the center was an imposingly tall bed with carved, dark wooden posts, hung with heavy damask curtains of burgundy and gold. The bed was heaped with pillows, and the satin pillowcases shone faintly in the light of the lamps.

One wall was lined with shelves, containing books as well as a plethora of china figurines, silk flowers, trinket boxes, and other knickknacks, with a velvet-cushioned chair for reading nearby. Against another was a felt-topped writing desk bearing an inkwell. Apart from this the entire wall was dedicated to a splendid portrait of the King of Nohr as a young cavalier, astride a black horse in royal armor.

Camilla ventured into the room, and then halted with a little gasp as a movement caught her eye, causing her sister to bump into her from behind. She let out the breath she had been holding. It was only her own reflection. Through a partly open door they could just see into an adjoining dressing-room, with a mirror and a vanity table visible and an array of brushes, combs, makeup cases, and perfume bottles at hand.

Samantha let out a nervous giggle. “Come on,” said Camilla, to bolster their courage.

“Where should we look?”

“In stories there’s always a secret book on a bookshelf that’s really a lever, or a hidden panel in a mirror that swings around, or something.”

She approached the bookshelf, and began inspecting the volumes for secrets. Surprisingly, they were all rather ordinary-looking: books on history, and horticulture, and etiquette. She supposed all of her mother’s sorcery tomes were kept in her study, but now that she considered it, she realized she had never seen the study itself. Her mother often said she was retiring to her study and Camilla was not to disturb her, but she was not entirely certain of where it was.

Samantha drifted over to the portrait of their father. “He looks funny without his beard.”

“Some of the mothers say that Xander looks like the way he used to. They say he’s going to grow up into a real charmer.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Samantha put her head to one side and contemplated the portrait. “He looks nice, like Xander.” Remembering their mission, she reached up and experimentally pressed the portrait’s gilded frame, but nothing happened.

Abandoning the books, Camilla examined a row of porcelain swan figurines on a shelf without success, then turned her attention to the desk. The drawers yielded only blank stationery, spare quills, a roll of blotting paper and a sprinkler of sand for drying ink. She was beginning to get bored with the search when Samantha whispered, “Milla, look!”

She was standing on her toes, pointing up at one of the wall lamps. Camilla came over to look. “That one isn’t lit,” explained Samantha, “The glass isn’t even smoky. It’s like it’s never been lit.” On tiptoes, she leaned against the wall and stretched up her arm, but couldn’t reach the lamp.

“Here.” Camilla took her sister beneath the arms and hefted her up as high as she could. Samantha reached and reached until her fingers just barely hooked over the brass arm of the sconce. There came a satisfying _clunk_ as the arm tilted downwards, and then an entire panel of the wall swung open like a door.

Samantha gave a squeal of delight and clung to Camilla as she set her down. Hand in hand, they ventured into the darkness beyond.

To their surprise, it was not a secret staircase but an entire little room, lit by the flickering blue glimmer of a wisp of light held suspended, apparently by magic, in a corner. By its ghostly glow they beheld a workbench, upon which strangely-shaped glass globes, bottles, and tubes were arranged into some inexplicable apparatus over a small stove. Beside it stood a mortar and pestle, a scale with a set of brass weights and measures, and a rack of slender vials with cork stoppers, some filled with liquids of varying colors and consistency.

Beneath the shimmering ball of light was a tiny indoor garden on a shelf, with a tidy row of flowers in many varieties growing in pots in the artificial light. Their scent was close and heavy in the small windowless room, like standing among all of the mothers when they were wearing different perfumes.

Pushed up next to the workbench was another writing desk against the adjacent wall, this one much smaller to fit the confines of the room and stacked with leather-bound journals. Every available inch of wallspace was given over to shelves, crammed with books, scrolls, notebooks, and row after row of little jars, each labeled with Camilla’s mother’s precise, elegant handwriting.

“This must be Mother’s study,” Camilla whispered into the darkness.

“What does she study?” asked Samantha, not letting go of Camilla’s hand. The unsteady light cast haltingly moving shadows that gave everything, especially the mysterious apparatus on the table, an air of menace.

“Magic, I thought, but . . . that’s an alchemist’s workbench.”

“What’s an alchemist?”

“Someone who brews potions and . . . things.”

“You mean like vulneraries? For healing?”

Camilla did not reply. She had an uneasy feeling that if all her mother was doing here was brewing healing elixirs, the room would not be hidden as it was. Biting her lip, she looked around until her gaze fell on the flowers. Most of them were strange to her, but she recognized one plant by the tiny white bell-shaped blossoms on its curling stem. She let out her breath in a sigh of relief.

“Oh! Lily-of-the-valley. That’s Mother’s favorite scent. She must make her own perfumes here.”

Samantha approached the flowers and leaned up to sniff them appreciatively. Camilla went to one of the shelves and began reading the labels on the jars. Each contained some specimen of dried herb or powder, none of them familiar to her. Mandrake root. Cinnabar. Wormwood bark. Belladonna.

“Oh, no!” cheeped Samantha. Camilla turned to see her holding a sprig of purple flowers with a guilty blush. “I’m so sorry, Milla! I was just trying to smell them.”

“It’s all right,” Camilla replied hurriedly, “Maybe she won’t notice. But I think we had better get out of here.”

“Agnes?” called a voice from outside, “Agnes, are you here?” Camilla’s heart jumped and began to race as though she had tripped and lost her balance in the dark. It was her mother’s voice.

“Come on!” Seizing Samantha by the hand, she dashed back through the open door and into the bedroom. She jumped once, twice, and succeeded in catching hold of the lamp switch to close the hidden door. As it swung shut behind them with painful slowness she could hear the approaching rap of Lavinia’s sharp-heeled shoes on the stone floor. Camilla made a dash for the door, grabbing one of the bedposts to swing herself along for greater speed. To her alarm it turned in her hand, sending her to the floor. With a faint grinding of concealed gears, the portrait of their father slid aside.

Salvation opened before them. Samantha hauled Camilla to her feet and the two girls flung themselves into the secret passage and scrambled up the hidden staircase. The wall slid ponderously back into place bare moments before Lavinia’s voice entered the room, calling for her maid.

Camilla and Samantha collapsed in a heap at the top of the stairs, feeling as though they had just outrun a harrowing death in the Woods of the Forlorn. Relief made them giddy, and they began to giggle and shush each other in turns. Once recovered, they decided there was no way to go but forward, and picked themselves up to continue along the passage. It ended at a blank space of wall, but the two of them were now adept enough sleuths to guess that a nearby torch bracket must conceal a switch, and in a few moments they stepped into their father’s chambers.

The royal bedchamber was much more austere than they would have guessed, especially after the lavish comfort of his mistress’s rooms. On a raised dais there was a very solid-looking bedstead of carved stone, over which hung the Nohrian coat of arms. The flagstone floor was bare apart from a fur rug before the hearth. Beside it stood a single leather chair and a table bearing a carafe of wine.

“It’s Father’s room,” Camilla whispered, reluctant to break the silence. “It looks . . . cold.”

“It’s so lonely,” Samantha whispered back, “No wonder he likes to visit all the mothers instead.”

They managed to make their way through the king’s chambers without meeting anyone, apart from a suit of armor that gave them a momentary fright, and escaped into the castle hall. From there they skipped and darted, laughing with delight at the thrill of their adventure, now that it was over.

Their headlong flight carried them around a corner and straight into Queen Katerina and her retainers.

“Gracious!” exclaimed the Queen, drawing her skirts to a halt.

“Your Majesty!” Camilla hastily assembled herself enough to perform a curtsy of apology, and Samantha did the same. “Please forgive us for our carelessness.”

“You are forgiven. But by the grace of the divine dragons, girls, what are you doing tearing about so? And in this part of the castle?”

“Your Majesty!” piped up Samantha eagerly, “May we see Xander?”

From anyone else it would have seemed like deception, calculated to deflect attention to the unanswered matter of their whereabouts, but Camilla really believed that seeing the Queen had simply put Samantha in mind of their brother, and she had no ulterior motive for wanting to see him. She envied her the ability to be so guileless. Samantha had probably never had to lie to her mother to save herself from punishment.

Queen Katerina’s eyes softened at the mention of her son. “How sweet of you to think of him, and to bring him flowers.” Camilla had all but forgotten the stem of purple flowers still clutched in her sister’s hand. Samantha held the slightly-battered sprig up for approval, but the Queen’s expression darkened into a frown as she got a better look at it.

“Where did you get those, child?”

“From a garden,” she replied, which was true.

“Give them to me at once,” Queen Katerina commanded, and Samantha relinquished them guiltily. The Queen took the plant from her with a handkerchief, and folded it up without touching the broken stem. “This is monkshood, children. It’s very pretty, but very dangerous. You ought not to go picking plants if you don’t know what they are. Now, both of you, you must go wash your hands right away, and don’t put your fingers near your mouths or eyes until you do!”

The two girls hurried off to obey. In Samantha’s bathroom, they scrubbed their arms up to the elbows with pink soap and hot water until they both were covered in suds.

“What’s monk’s hat, Milla?”

“What?”

“That flower! Queen Katerina said it was dangerous. Why is it dangerous?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I’d never seen it before.”

“Am I going to die?”

“No! Of course not.”

They retreated to her bedroom, eager to forget the strange things they had seen that afternoon amid the familiar, mundane comforts of toys and blankets, and Samantha’s mother bearing a plate of muffins.

But Camilla could not erase the memory of the dim laboratory with its mysteries. Whatever those strange plants were, growing in secret under that pale ghost-light, she doubted they were only for making perfume.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [a reference guide](https://www.deviantart.com/summonermintywolf/art/The-King-s-Mistresses-819248828) I drew to help you keep track of all the moms and siblings about to be introduced in this chapter. :)

Camilla’s world was one of satin ribbons and lace-trimmed petticoats, candied flowers on fancy desserts and silk flowers on fancier doll’s clothes, lamplight through stained-glass windows, roses in crystal vases, and a whirl of siblings, maids, nannies, tutors, magicians, minstrels, and guards. Through it all glided her mother, that magnetic and bewitching being of silk and velvet, perfume and jewels, the hub around which the giddying carousel turned.

Her father remained a presence on the periphery of her life, far away in his throne room and often too busy with important affairs of state, whatever that meant, to involve himself in the daily struggles, joys, and dramas of life in the Rose Wing, where his mistresses were kept. Still, he had a soft heart for all of its residents, and would spare the time to take a chosen mistress whose appealing smile had caught his eye for a walk around the gardens, or swing a child who ran to him with outstretched arms up on to his broad shoulders.

Sometimes, though, he did come to visit Camilla’s mother, through the secret entrance she had discovered with Samantha. She always knew when such an expected visit was coming because the entire apartment and everything in it, including Camilla herself, would be made extra clean and pretty. She enjoyed seeing her parents together, but these occasions tended to make her a little anxious because, after being allowed to greet her father, she would invariably be sent to bed early or shunted out the door to entertain herself elsewhere, so as not to intrude on the mysterious adult affairs happening between them. (When asked about it once, Lavinia had demurely said that they were playing chess in the parlor, and while that seemed to be true, Camilla doubted that that was _all _they had been doing, or she would not have been sent away.)

Every few months the King liked to have all of his children assembled and presented to him, in their best clothes and best behavior, so he could smile down on his progeny like a wise and benignant patriarch. One child – the _best_ child, it was implied – would then be chosen to accompany him for tea and an outing in the capital city, to be seen and admired by the people of Nohr. This favored son or daughter became the immediate envy of all the siblings, for it was a rare and coveted thing to be the sole focus of Father’s attention, even for just an afternoon, and the event always concluded with the bestowing of a gift of the child’s choosing.

The advent of this special day was like the coming of a festival holiday, and for the days leading up to it the Rose Wing buzzed with anticipation. The children debated, boastfully, wistfully, about where they would go, and what boon they would ask for, if they were chosen. Their mothers smiled indulgently on them in public, each appearing confident that her own darling would be the chosen one, while cajoling them with promises and threats behind closed doors to be at their best when the day came.

The last time Camilla had been chosen, she was too little to really understand the gravity of the occasion. She remembered looking out the carriage window, which she was only just tall enough to see out of, at the passing faces of Nohrians lined up along the streets in cheering crowds. She remembered their smiles as she waved to them, holding tight to her father’s hand when they disembarked from the carriage, and that he had told her that they were all there to catch a glimpse of her, their princess. Realizing that so many people were happy to see her all at once made her feel loved to the point of giddiness, and just a little afraid, too.

At her request he had taken her out for ice cream, and to the zoological gardens. But in her excitement the careful instructions her mother had impressed upon her to ask for a string of black Hoshidan pearls had flown completely out of her mind, and instead she had voiced her heart’s desire for the pretty porcelain doll she had seen in a toy shop window that afternoon. It was given to her, but at home that evening she had received a spanking, as well. She did not regret it. She had loved that doll, until one day a few years later, when her mother had taken and broken it as punishment for being naughty.

On the morning of that long-awaited day Camilla had been scrubbed pink with scented soap and arrayed in layers of petticoats and ruffles, culminating in the dress her mother had selected for her. This was black and violet silk taffeta, chosen to complement her hair, and moreover, Lavinia’s own, for she would be standing just behind her. Her mother had not even left her curls to chance, and the night before she had washed, combed, and wound each of them up in strips of cloth, which had remained tied to her head in little bundles for the entirety of an uncomfortable night. Now she unbound them one by one, letting her hair fall in precise, perfect ringlets.

“I daresay Beatrix will have had the same idea,” she sighed, fluffing her handiwork lightly with her fingers, “She does so envy your curls. But yours are the best, because your hair is the royal color.”

“I think she curls Roxana’s hair with a hot poker,” offered Camilla, and then hoped her mother would not get any ideas, because Samantha had told her how this operation had resulted in the singeing of Roxana’s ear at least once. Lavinia, however, appeared not to notice, and produced her best patent leather shoes. She stepped into them, wincing a little. “They’re too small.”

“What? You’ve hardly had these a few months!”

“They’re pinching me.”

“Well, curl your toes. I suppose I shall have to have new ones made. Again.”

“Can’t I wear another pair?”

“No. These shoes complement this dress to the best effect.”

While she doubted anyone would be looking that closely at her feet, Camilla trusted her mother’s judgement, and stood shifting her feet inside the too-tight shoes, trying to fit them into a more comfortable position while Lavinia circled her, making minute adjustments to her hair, her stockings, the fall of her sleeves. She pinched the lingering baby-pudge softness of one of Camilla’s arms in passing with a sigh of long suffering.

“If you weren’t always after sweets, you wouldn’t have this problem, you know. But it can’t be helped now. In a few years you’ll be old enough for stays, and that should help your figure, anyway. Stand up straighter, and pull in your stomach. There. Now . . .” Coming to stand in front of her, she made a demonstrative sweep with her hands, “Give me your prettiest smile.”

Camilla obliged. Lavinia did not return it. “Hmm. Perhaps you should practice smiling with your mouth closed, just until you have all of your teeth.”

She dropped the smile. It was true that she had recently lost two more of her baby teeth, and in the front her grown-up teeth were still coming in. From the way her mother reacted, she must have looked like a carved harvest festival pumpkin when she smiled.

Thoughtfully she prodded the empty space between her teeth with her tongue while Lavinia crossed the room to her dresser. She could see the smile bloom upon her face as it always did when she opened the jeweled case where Camilla’s tiara lay upon its bed of velvet. Her mother lifted it out with a covetous reverence and carried it to her.

Camilla’s shoulders straightened instinctively as the tiara was placed upon her head. Only she and Xander, as the eldest son and daughter of the royal line, were permitted to wear a crown, and seeing her in it always seemed to wipe away any dissatisfaction her mother had with her, for the moment. Lavinia beamed at her, and Camilla looked up at her with a lifting heart.

“Your father will be _so_ pleased with you. And you have the advantage today, my dear; the crown prince is still recovering from his unfortunate riding injury, so you will be at the head of the line. Do you remember what you wish to ask for, for your outing with the King?”

She nodded, and repeated as she had been told, “I would like to do whatever pleases His Majesty best.”

“Very good. And for your gift?”

Camilla hesitated. She wanted nothing except for a wyvern of her own, and riding lessons, but she did not dare voice such a wish to her mother. “I don’t remember.”

“You want to ask for nothing, for the pleasure of his company is gift enough, but perhaps if he will grant you but a little _favor_, in the future.”

“But Mother . . . that’s like asking for nothing at all!”

“On the contrary, darling. A favor from the King is a very valuable thing to have, to call upon when you need it.”

“Yes, Mother.” Camilla agreed glumly, thinking of the pony carriages and sailboats and war dogs that were doubtless in the imaginations of her other siblings. Lavinia cupped her chin in her hand.

“There’s my good girl. Now, shall we be off?”

*

The children and their mothers assembled in a small private ballroom that was reserved for the King’s mistresses’ social events. A few of them were already there, the mothers gathered in little groups, chatting lightly about nothing of consequence, while their children tried to play without ruining their best clothes. Two of Camilla’s younger brothers were running and sliding in their slippery good shoes on the polished wooden floor, which looked like great fun, but she knew better than to ask to join them.

To one side tables were laid with place settings and bunches of flowers in preparation for a festive luncheon for the majority of mothers and children who would not receive the King’s blessing, and a court minstrel was providing ambiance by plucking neutrally at a lute.

Samantha trotted up to her with outstretched arms as she entered, tiny and fairylike in a pink dress with a circlet of silk rosebuds on her hair. “Milla! You’re here! You look so pretty!” She dropped a charming curtsy to Camilla’s mother, then turned to smile up at her own, who had followed her. She was also missing a tooth, but it was one of the cute ones in front, so the gap did not detract from her appearance. Her normally straight hair had been freshly curled, too, she noticed, and hoped her mother wouldn’t.

“Good morrow, Lavinia. It’s so nice to see you.”

“And you as well, Phyllida.”

The two women exchanged smiles, but Camilla noticed that only Lady Phyllida’s reached her eyes. She was looking up at Lavinia with a shy, shining expression, like that of a child wistfully staring after a coveted toy she doesn’t dare ask for, but hopes someone will notice and give to her as a present. This did not surprise Camilla. A lot of people looked at her mother like that.

Lavinia moved away from her to greet a slender woman with pale, silvery-blonde hair that shone beneath the lights of the chandeliers. “Isolde, how kind of you to come. I know these events must be difficult for you.” Lady Isolde was the mother of baby Grace, who had died before Camilla had known her. Normally she just drifted around the castle wing looking forlorn, not having much to say to the mothers with still-living children, but in response to Lavinia’s remark she only smiled inscrutably to herself.

“I do the best that I can, Lavinia.”

Lady Celandine, the youngest of the King’s mistresses, who still had no children of her own yet, fluttered over with a swishing of petticoats to clasp both of them in a hug. “Lavinia! Hiii!” she sang, “Don’t you look pretty today, Camilla! Just like your mama.”

Camilla looked up at her mother, and saw that she was glowing with pride at the compliment. At times like this she did not doubt that her mother loved her, but she loved her like a doll she could dress up and show off, to prove that hers was the best one.

Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid, whose sons were close in age, were sitting together on a backless cushioned bench that allowed them to face each other. Their heads were together as they tittered quietly over some unheard private joke and each of them was already holding a champagne flute.

“It looks like _someone’s_ already started on the festivities,” copper-haired Lady Beatrix, the mother of Roxana, commented wryly as she sidled over.

“Who says the kids get to have all the fun, huh?” insisted Lady Celandine.

“Maybe they ought to be paying more attention to theirs,” Lady Beatrix shot a meaningful glance at the rambunctious boys on the ballroom floor. “They shall be all mussed when the time comes.”

Lavinia made a dismissive gesture. “Those who have no chance of winning don’t fear to lose.”

Tiring of the adult conversation going on over her head, Camilla started off in the direction of the small crowd of children with Samantha by the hand. The heels of her fancy shoes knocked with a pleasing echo against the wooden parquet floor, even if they were too tight, and her taffeta skirts rustled as she walked. Roxana was there, with her red-gold hair, as predicted, arrayed in long coils that bounced like springs when she turned her head and surmounted with a black satin ribbon. Their brothers, Laurent and Avery, were still engaged in seeing who could slide the furthest before falling down. Two-year-old Bertram, clad in a sailor suit, was toddling after them, unsuccessfully trying to keep up with his big brothers. Their other brother, shy, serious Edgar, preferred the company of the mothers rather than his noisy siblings, and was standing on the other side of the room amid the jewel-colored forest of skirts. His mother, Lady Elaine, was never far from him.

“So what are you going to ask for, if Father chooses you?” Roxana demanded of them, by way of introduction.

Camilla decided not to reveal the strategy her mother had imparted to her. “I’d like to have a wyvern,” she replied confidently.

“Ugh! What do you want with one of those brutes? They’re so ugly!”

“Wyverns aren’t ugly!” Samantha piped up in her defense, “They’re nice!” Camilla doubted she really stood by this conviction, but she gave her hand a surreptitious squeeze of appreciation.

“Oh, so I suppose you’re going to ask for one too?”

“Um . . . no, I don’t think so.”

“Well, have you a better idea, then?” asked Camilla.

“_I_ want a ballista,” Roxana announced proudly. She rounded on Samantha as the younger girl began to giggle. “What?” she demanded, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

Roxana narrowed her amber eyes fiercely, then gave an airy shrug and tossed one of her ringlets over her shoulder. “_Anyway_. I’m sure you’ve heard my mother has been appointed to be the strategist for the palace royal guard. She’ll be planning tactics with Father’s own generals. I’m sure she can get me a ballista, even if Father doesn’t. It’s a pity _your_ mother is still just a troubadour. What can she get you? A pennywhistle?”

“Mama likes being a troubadour,” Samantha replied softly, “She likes to help by healing people, and she likes to play her harp.” Her voice trailed off and she shrank back a little against Camilla.

Camilla offered Roxana a winsome smile. “Roxy, is it true that strategists for the royal guard have to sleep in the barracks? I suppose you’ll be moving soon. We’ll miss you _ever_ so much.”

Their sister’s eyes grew wide. Clearly she had not considered this possibility. Without a further word to either of them, she turned and ran to her mother with her ringlets bouncing behind her.

“Is that true?” Samantha asked in a whisper.

“No,” replied Camilla, “But I didn’t want to talk to her anymore.”

They were not close enough to hear Roxana’s voice, but they did hear the ripples of indulgent laughter rising from the collected mothers in response to her query, and even from the distance the crossness in her posture was easily readable as she was patted on the head by more than one maternal hand.

“Oh!” Samantha tugged on Camilla’s sleeve, “Look, it’s Lady Primula’s babies!”

Roxana was spared further embarrassment by the arrival of a lace-bedecked double pram being wheeled in by a nanny in a starched white apron. The last to arrive, Lady Primula followed behind, smiling at the other assembled mothers and children with a blissful radiance they all knew the reason for. She alone had provided the King with not one, but _two_ children, and a matched set besides.

Camilla and Samantha hurried over to see the infant twins, who bore the extravagant names of Delphinium and Gladiolus. Gladiolus was sleeping through the commotion, but his sister was awake, looking up at the faces gathered above her with wondering eyes. Her face peeped out from the lacy bonnet surrounding it like a flower. Lady Primula stood by beaming as some of the siblings and their mothers gathered around to admire them, cooing over tiny hands and chubby cheeks.

“You’re so lucky, Primula!” gushed Lady Celandine, with a touch of envy, “King Garon must be so pleased.”

Primula only smiled modestly, or with a pretense of modesty. Her moment of fame, however, was cut short by a wail from little Bertram, who had evidently slipped on the polished floor and fallen down. Avery stood over him, sniggering. He was three years younger than Camilla, with an angelic face whose seeming sweetness hid the penchant for mischief that lay behind it. His mother kept his golden hair long, often in ringlets to complement his cherubic aspect, and was fond of dressing him up like a prim little gentleman in lace and ruffled collars. In the presence of the mothers, Avery knew how to use his beauty and innocent-seeming aspect to charm and beguile any adult whose eyes fell on him, but Camilla knew better. Abandoning the infants, she ran to Betram and scooped him up before he could work himself into a fuss.

“Poor Bertie,” she soothed, “Did you fall down?”

“Poor Bertie,” echoed Samantha at her shoulder, “Let me see.” She leaned in and kissed the proffered bumped elbow.

“All better?” prompted Camilla, bouncing him.

“Yeth,” said Bertie, and put his pudgy little arms around her neck contentedly.

“Camilla! What in the world are you doing? Put that baby down at once!” Lavinia intervened with the sharpness of a knife. She pried the toddler from her grasp, holding him at arm’s length as though he were something that might explode, and hastily passed him off to his own mother, Lady Klara, who came running to receive him. She took him with a dark glance at Lavinia, who fortunately did not notice it as she was preoccupied with tidying her daughter’s dress where the child’s hands had touched it.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Camilla said softly, feeling her ears burning with embarrassment.

Lavinia sighed over her rumpled collar, and rearranged her hair to cover the crease, muttering so that only Camilla could hear. “Well, with all the tears and snot and gods know what else coming out of that child, it nearly might not have been. You ought to be more attentive!”

“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”

Lavinia put her hands on either side of her head and tilted her chin up. “There. Keep your head up! Remember, you are a princess. It’s nearly time.”

“Adelheid!” Lady Klara was reprimanding the other woman, “You ought to keep a tighter rein on your son. He’s been picking on poor Bertie again.”

Lady Adelheid looked from Betram to her own son. “Oh, Klara,” she sighed, “I’m sure they were just playing. You know how boys are.”

Avery put his hands behind his back with a winsome smile. “I didn’t push him, Mommy!” he announced loudly, “He just slipped! Honest!”

Lady Adelheid gave Lady Klara a placating simper which was only returned by a darkening frown. “You see? Now why don’t you two boys run off and play nicely. Father will be here soon!” Laurent and Avery dashed off giggling to resume their game of sliding on the parquet floor. With a _ hmph_, Lady Klara carried Bertram over to the gentler company of Lady Primula and Lady Celandine.

As predicted, a herald appeared not long after to announce the arrival of the King. There was an immediate flurry of activity. Samantha flew to her mother as though she had been tugged on a line. Lady Adelheid and Lady Lynnette disengaged from each other, abandoned their champagne glasses, and hurried to round up their sons. Lady Celandine tried to help Lady Primula balance one of her babies in each arm, despite her impatient snapping that she could manage on her own. Lady Elaine attempted to detach Edgar from her skirts, which only made him cling to her more tightly. Camilla’s mother seized her by the wrist and propelled her swiftly, stumbling in her too-tight shoes, to her place at the head of the line, as though she feared someone would take it from her.

By the time the King entered with his retinue, his children were arranged before him in a neat row beneath the sparkling lights of the chandeliers with their mothers smiling behind them, as though they had been waiting calmly to bask in his presence the entire time. As expected, Xander was absent, and so Camilla held the position of eldest, first, and tallest. Beside her stood Roxana, her red-gold ringlets arranged just so, and on Roxana’s other side was Samantha in her flower crown. To the other side of her was Edgar, peering solemnly through his round spectacles, and Laurent and Avery, whose lacy sock was falling down, and then little Bertram, and finally the babies Delphinium and Gladiolus in the arms of their mother. To the side stood Lady Celandine, her eyes glittering with barely-contained delight and jealousy, and Lady Isolde, still smiling her patient, mysterious smile.

The King greeted them as usual with a few official words about the occasion, and the importance of all of them, his beloved mistresses and children, to him. Famously, it was said that he could not bear to break the heart of any woman he had loved, and so he kept them all close to him, every one of them titled whether she came from noble or common origins, and every one of his children a royal heir. Each of them a vessel for the divine dragon blood.

King Garon put his hands behind his back and began his walk down the line of his assembled family, stopping to greet each one in turn. Camilla’s heartbeat fluttered in her ears as she tried to remember everything she had been told at once.

“Father,” she addressed him politely, presented a curtsy perfected by long practice, and finished with what she hoped was a charming smile. Too late, she realized she was smiling with her teeth and quickly closed her lips. He returned the smile with a little chuckle and gave an affectionate tap to the tip of one of her horns before moving on to Roxana. Lavinia’s hands settled on her shoulders and gripped her tightly, but whether it was in support or remonstration, or simply nerves, Camilla could not tell.

King Garon continued down the line, receiving a curtsy from each girl and a bow from each boy. When he got to Bertram, however, the child abruptly began to howl, which immediately set off both of Lady Primula’s twins like a raid alarm. Red-faced, their mothers hastened to pacify them, trying alternately to offer words of apology to the King and urgent, shushing placations to their children. This time, Lady Celandine did not come forward to help Lady Primula with her babies, but remained leaning against the wall, watching with amusement. Laurent and Avery began to snicker.

Lady Primula was saved by the intervention of the nanny who came rushing in with the pram to ferry Delphinium and Gladiolus away, and Lady Klara curtly bore off the distraught Bertram before he could cause a further disturbance. Camilla felt sorry for the little fellow, for there was undoubtedly a spanking in his near future. But she felt a tiny, mean stab of hope that her chances had just improved, although it was rare for the youngest children to be chosen.

“Poor little lad,” remarked Garon, not without humor, “All the excitement is too much for him.” The mothers rejoined with polite, deferential laughter, which could not conceal the tension that still strung the room like a taut violin string. Returning to the task at hand, the King began making his way back up the line, moving with a stately, measured tread of agonizing slowness. He passed the boys, passed the younger girls, and returned to Camilla. She beamed up at him, her heart radiating with joy. Smiling back at her, he turned again, and continued on, passing her by. He stopped.

“Samantha,” he said, offering her his hand, “Will you do me the pleasure of accompanying me?”

“I would be honored, Father!”

Camilla’s mother gripped her shoulders so hard it hurt. She bit back a little cry that no one else heard.


	5. Chapter Five

“A rabbit!” laughed Lavinia, two days later, “She could have asked for anything she wished, and she wished for a rabbit!”

“It’s a cute rabbit!” Camilla replied, a little defensively on Samantha’s behalf, for her mother was entertaining Lady Beatrix and her daughter for tea, and she did not like to hear them laughing about her favorite sister. She had just been to see the soft-eyed, soft-furred creature, which Samantha had been very excited to introduce to her. It was brown and white, like whipped cream melting into a cup of hot cocoa, and just as sweet and warm. She tried to convey the velvety softness of its ears, the twitchy cuteness of its nose, but gave up when she noticed she had lost her mother’s attention.

“Well, I suppose it’s nothing to be envious of,” Lady Beatrix remarked, which was not entirely true, for now that Camilla had seen the rabbit for herself she couldn’t help wishing for one of her own, a little, “A bunny is hardly going to tip the balance of power in her favor.” She chuckled into her teacup. “Disappointing for Phyllida, I suppose.”

Camilla toed the floor but didn’t say anything. Lady Phyllida had seemed just as delighted with the new family member as her daughter had, but it was no use explaining that to these two adults. She decided against sharing the rest of her news, that she had heard from Samantha that Avery had pinched poor little Bertram to make him cry at the crucial moment. Neither of the women was paying much notice to her.

“Why don’t you and Roxana go play in your room, darling,” said Lavinia. Camilla did not particularly want to play with Roxana, and especially not in her room with her toys, but she knew it was a command rather than a suggestion. Roxana, who had been listening avidly to the mothers’ conversation, got up and followed her sulkily.

“Leave the door open!” she hissed as Camilla prepared to close it behind them, “They were just getting to the interesting bits when you came in interrupting about that stupid rabbit.”

“Oh? What interesting bits?” Camilla asked, both fascinated and a little scandalized by Roxana’s penchant for eavesdropping.

“Shh!” Her sister positioned herself by the partly-opened door, where she could listen without being seen by their mothers. Lady Beatrix’s voice carried down the hall from the parlor.

“Dear, have you heard the news?”

“That depends on what news it is. I suppose you’re going to tell me, regardless.”

“Oh? Suppose I don’t, then?” A brief silence. “Well, if you _must_ know . . . it seems darling Isolde is expecting again. Isn’t that delightful?”

“My, that is something. I thought she seemed pleased about something. How fortunate for her.”

“Expecting what?” demanded Roxana in a whisper, “I don’t get what’s so exciting.”

“Why, a baby, of course!” Camilla replied, whispering too.

“Ugh,” snorted Roxana, “_Another_ sibling. I hope it’s not another boy.”

“I wouldn’t mind a baby brother.” Camilla thought of pale, sad-eyed Lady Isolde. Maybe a new baby would make her happy again. “I wonder what his name will be.”

She began to remove her shoes and stockings, for she still had blisters from the dress shoes she had forced her feet into the day of the ceremony, and they hurt. Roxana, disgusted with the women’s conversation now that it had turned to babies, left her post by the door and flopped moodily on the floor with a _floof_ of skirts.

“So what do you have to play with?”

Camilla looked around the room reluctantly. She hated to subject her dolls or her dear old plush wyvern to her sister’s abuses, but she doubted she would have much interest in her doll’s house and feared she might chip her tea set. Finally she dragged a trunk of her mother’s old clothes and costume jewelry that she used to play dress-up from beneath the bed. Most of it was from a long time ago, when she had been only the second daughter of an unremarkable family of the lower nobility, before she had caught their father’s eye, before Camilla had been born. She was pleased to see Roxana’s eyes light up when she opened it, for she was proud of her mother’s things, even if they were old.

Roxana seized a blue velvet gown and a satin-wrapped headband from the box. Donning the gown over her own dress, she placed the headband on her burnished red-gold hair like a tiara and flounced in front of Camilla’s mirror. “_I’m_ going to be the Queen,” she announced grandly.

“All right,” agreed Camilla amiably, “I’ll be a knight, then.”

“No,” Roxana corrected her firmly, “The _real_ Queen. Mummy said so.”

“But . . . Xander is going to be King. And I’m older than you, anyhow! If you’re to be Queen, that means I’d have to be . . .”

“Dead,” Roxana shrugged airily, and grinned at her reflection.

*

Autumn was coming, and now that the anxious anticipation of the ceremonial outing with the King was over, Camilla and Samantha whiled away the last fading days of summer together in dreamy, aimless contentment. They spent hours among the lilacs playing with their dolls, or with Samantha’s bunny, waged pretend battles with their siblings in the courtyard with sticks and wooden swords, splashed through puddles when it rained. They visited Xander in his chambers with armfuls of flowers –careful to pick only safe, recognizable blossoms from the gardens after what Queen Katerina had said to them – and wove him garlands of late-blooming asters and dahlias. They shared the last of the summer strawberries, painting their lips with the juice and covering each others’ cheeks with sweet, sticky kisses. They napped in the shade through the lingering heat of the afternoon, at peace with each other and everyone else.

But their happiness, doomed to fade like the warmth of the summer sun at the turning of the season, did not last.

*

“But Mother!”

“No, Camilla. I have already told you once that I don’t like you spending so much time with her, but you persisted. You are around her and her mother far too often. Phyllida already has the momentary advantage of having the _favored_ child,” in the mirror, her mouth twisted into a sneer over the word, “And as the eldest daughter, you are in a precarious position, whether you realize it or not. I’d prefer that you stay away from both of them until the next child is chosen.”

From the doorway of the dressing-room where she was lingering, Camilla watched as her mother removed her hairpins for the night and unbound the heavy coil of her violet hair, which spilled into her lap in an unraveling spiral. She began drawing a comb through it that had a handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“But Mother,” Camilla protested, “Lady Phyllida is so kind. I’m sure she doesn’t mean me any harm, not me or anyone. And . . . and Samantha is my best friend! I love her!” Her voice caught in her throat, and the tears that had been collecting in her eyes overflowed hotly onto her cheeks. “Please let me see her again!”

“No,” Lavinia replied firmly, without turning around.

“Please, Mother! I promise we won’t play at her apartments any more, we’ll play in the gardens, or . . .”

“_No_, Camilla!” Camilla flinched as her mother slammed the comb down onto her dressing table. “How _can _you be so selfish, after all I do for you? I’ve already told you more than once, do _not_ make me tell you another time, or you shall never see her again, is that clear?”

She clenched her hands into fists amidthe volume of her skirts. “You’re just jealous!” she cried recklessly, amazing herself with her boldness as soon as the words left her mouth, “You’re jealous of Samantha, and Lady Phyllida, and you’re taking it out on me!”

In the mirror she saw all the color in her mother’s beautiful face collect into two red-hot spots of rage high on her cheeks. Her eyes glittered hard and sharp as amethysts. Slowly she rose from her dressing table, gathering herself up to her full height with the stately, regal grace that could have belonged to the Queen of Nohr, and turning as she did to face her daughter.

“Get out of my sight,” she hissed, her voice all the more frightening for its softness. Camilla obeyed.

*

The next few days passed in a dreary muddle like an endless rainy afternoon. Apart from her morning lessons, Camilla was forbidden to leave the apartments, and banned from both company and desserts. Lavinia spoke to her no more than was necessary, neither accepting nor offering an apology, and seemed to be pretending that the argument had not happened at all, except that she refused to acknowledge any attempts to talk about it. She spent most of her time in her study, behind the secret door that she did not think anyone knew about, and so Camilla was left alone, facing a prison sentence of unknowable duration with only her dolls for companionship.

Three days into her internment, she was lying listlessly on the parlor sofa with her head against the back cushion and her feet dangling over the edge, doing nothing at all, when there came a tiny, timid knock upon the door. At first she did not stir, unable to muster the enthusiasm to see who it was. Agnes was at present busy tidying her bedroom, so whoever it was would have to wait, or go away. The knock came again, a little bolder this time. Agnes did not reappear. Perhaps she had not heard it.

Camilla raised her head, then slid slowly off the couch into a heap on the floor like a puddle of honey, and stood. It might be someone important, or interesting. Perhaps her mother would be angry that she hadn’t opened the door, or at least, more angry than if she did. Reasoning that there was an equal chance of her being angry either way, Camilla went to the door and answered it herself.

It was Samantha, rocking back and forth on the threshold with her hands behind her back. She looked up at Camilla with a heartbreakingly uncertain expression, her face caught clearly between extremes of joy and apprehension.

“Milla!” she whispered, as though afraid to break the silence of the rooms beyond, “You’re here!”

Camilla flung her arms around her little sister and crushed her against herself in a hug. “I’m so sorry!” she whispered back, “I’ve been in trouble with Mother, and she’s practically been keeping me in solitary confinement. I’ve missed you so much!”

“I missed you too!” squeaked Samantha, muffled against her dress, “I . . . I thought you were mad at me.”

“No! I could never be!”

Something was poking her in the side. When she released Samantha, it turned out to be a flat circular pasteboard box she was carrying, prettily wrapped with a pink ribbon. She presented it to her proudly.

“Look what I got as a present! I wanted to share them with you.” She slid the ribbon off and lifted the lid to reveal a trove of tiny chocolate bunnies, each nested in its own waxed-paper ruffle. “Can you come out to play?”

Camilla twisted one of her curls around her fingers uncertainly. Her mother would undoubtedly be furious if she found out, but the promise of spending an afternoon with her best friend again and the aroma of the forbidden chocolate were too much to resist. She might never see Samantha again, either way, so she might as well seize the opportunity now while she had the chance, no matter the consequences.

“All right,” she agreed furtively, “Mother’s busy in her study now, and she’s going to be meeting Father this evening, so maybe she won’t even miss me. Come on!”

They scurried off to the gardens through a circuitous route of little-used back passages and corridors, delighting in the thrill of feeling like prisoners escaping from behind enemy lines. When they were safe in their lilac sanctuary, Samantha untied the ribbon on her treasure and opened the box again.

“They’re almost too cute to eat,” she sighed wistfully, then giggled. “Almost.”

The bunny-shaped candies turned out to be of the mysterious sort with different flavors inside the chocolate shell, and the two of them made a game of guessing what each was going to be, before biting into it. Raspberry cream and toffee, peppermint and caramel, maple sugar and marchpane were discovered and delighted in, in a joyously sweet, sticky parade. Afterwards they ran out into the garden to bound and frolic like rabbits amid the flowers, leaving the half-empty candy box behind in their secret den.

Before long Camilla realized that hopping around with her tummy full of sweets was not really a great idea, and dropped down to rest with her back against a stone planter of chrysanthemums. Samantha came and flopped on the grass next to her, letting her head fall into her sister’s lap with a comfortable sort of carelessness. Idly Camilla patted her hair a few times, then left her hand resting where it was. Evening was coming, with an autumnal stillness broken only by the whisper of leaves and the chirring of insects.

“I’m sleepy,” mumbled Samantha after a time. Camilla found she was, too. Nodding off right there in the garden, with the breeze on her face, the scent of flowers all around, and her best beloved close by seemed like the pleasantest thing in the world. She closed her eyes. How nice it would be to sleep forever, and never have to go home.

“Milla?” Her voice, a little muffled by Camilla’s skirts, sounded as though it was coming from a long way away. A bumblebee was droning near Camilla’s ear, and it seemed to take a lot of effort to tear her focus away from it.

“. . . Hmm?”

“I’m . . . not feeling very well.”

Camilla opened her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“Why don’t you take a nap? Maybe you’ll feel better.”

Samantha sat up and shook her head. She did look a little sick; the pink was faded from her round little face and her normally bright eyes were downcast. “I think . . . I want to go home. Could you take me home?”

“Of course.” Camilla got up and helped her to her feet. Samantha leaned into her for support as they made their way slowly back to the castle, their arms around each other. By the time they reached her apartments she was stumbling and out of breath, and Camilla had to half-carry her.

Lady Phyllida leapt to her feet and hurried over as soon as she saw them. Samantha disentangled herself from Camilla’s arms and tottered into her mother’s.

“Mama . . .”

“Why, darling! What’s the matter?” she asked, sweeping her up and holding her close. Samantha only replied with a little whimper and laid her head down on her shoulder.

“She said she isn’t feeling well,” explained Camilla.

Lady Phyllida made a sympathetic noise and laid the back of her fingers against her daughter’s forehead. The tenderness of the gesture tugged a thread of wistful jealousy in Camilla’s heart. She was starting to feel the ominous onset of a tummyache as well, and she wished that she too could be folded into the loving softness of Lady Phyllida’s arms.

“Is Samantha going to be okay?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” her mother replied, a little distractedly, “She should be feeling better in a day or two, and then you two can play together again. Thank you, Milla dear.”

Murmuring words of reassurance into her daughter’s ear, she carried her off to her bedroom without saying anything more to Camilla. The last she saw of Samantha was her hand waving a feeble goodbye at her over her mother's shoulder as she disappeared from sight. Then she was left alone.

Reluctantly, she found her way home, trailing one hand against the wall. By the time she reached her mother’s apartments she was decidedly regretting having eaten so many sweets. Her stomach was roiling with pain, and she was breathing hard, and a hazy lightheadedness had started to make her trip over cracks between the flagstones. Abstractly she wondered if this was always the result of a surfeit of chocolate, and if anyone had ever died of it.

Once, when she was three or four, she had discovered she could make her mother’s parlor spin and tilt about herself like a merry-go-round if she held her arms out and twirled as fast as she could. She had spent part of a morning testing her new ability, twirling and then stopping to feel the world continue turning around her, until her delight had soured into fear when she found herself unable to make everything _stop_ spinning, and she had fallen down and bumped her head on the corner of a table. She could feel the world whirling about her head now in the same dizzying tumult, careening and rocking like a top about to fall.

Unsteadily, she made her way to her mother’s dressing-room. Lavinia was preparing for her evening with the King, elegant and lovely in a berrywine-colored evening gown that set off the perfection of her bared white shoulders, the swanlike grace of her neck. Ordinarily Camilla loved to watch in admiration as she arrayed herself in all her finery for Father, but she was too miserable to appreciate it now.

“Mother?” she called timidly from the doorway, holding on to the frame to keep herself upright. She was beginning to shiver.

Lavinia did not turn her head, for Agnes was busy pinning up her hair. “Not right now, dear.” With the maid standing between them, Camilla could not see her reflection, but her tone was clipped and dismissive. She feared her face would hold the same expression.

She leaned her woozy head against the doorframe. “Mother,” she pleaded again. She longed to go to her, to bury her face in the silk and velvet of her lap, to be cuddled, and comforted, and cared for, for once, but she did not dare.

“Mother’s busy right now, Camilla. Do stop whining. Why don’t you go find something to occupy yourself?”

Her knees buckled, and she slid down against the doorframe into a puddle of petticoats. “Mother, please,” she begged, in a hoarse and breaking whisper, “Please, just this once.”

Lavinia turned. Her fine eyebrows arched in alarm as she took in the trembling wreck of her daughter. “Camilla! Dragon’s breath, child, if it was as bad as all that you should have spoken up.” But she came, and knelt beside her. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t feel well.”

“Yes, I can see that. Tell me what hurts.”

It was hard to convey her feeling of overall wretchedness, but she put her hands on her stomach with a little groan.

“I see. Well, what have you had to eat recently?”

Camilla fidgeted uncomfortably with a fold of her skirt. “Um, just . . . some chocolates,” she confessed, and winced, “Rather a lot of them, actually.”

Lavinia’s face darkened, and she leaned back on her heels. “Well! There’s the cause of your trouble, then. I daresay it’s your own fault. If you weren’t such a greedy, deceitful child, off sneaking sweets . . .” she stopped, and her stern expression melted into one of awakening horror. “Where did you get them?” she demanded urgently. Camilla blinked, confused by the shift in her demeanor. Her mother took her face in her hands, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Tell me where you got them.”

Camilla swallowed hard, knowing she was about to sign her own death warrant. “Fr-from Samantha.”

Her mother then did the last thing she expected. She took her daughter in her arms and clutched her to her heart, as though she were something precious she feared to lose.

“Oh, no. Oh, no no _no_. Oh, my darling girl. Not you. Not you.”


	6. Chapter Six

Camilla was put straight to bed, and the healer was sent for. She lay shivering in the half-dark of her room, watching her mother pace back and forth before the fire. Neither of them spoke; Camilla was too weak to raise her voice above a whisper and whatever her mother’s thoughts, she kept them to herself.

After an immeasurable length of time Agnes returned with a woman of late middle age, outfitted with a cleric’s wimple and a cloth satchel and leaning on a staff to aid her limp. Camilla had seen her before; she served as healer and midwife to the King’s mistresses and their children and had tended to her and her siblings through various minor illnesses and hurts. Lavinia, all full of worry and endearments now that she had an audience, hovered beside the bed as she looked Camilla over, feeling for her pulse, sitting her up and bringing a candle close to her eyes to examine her pupils, looking into her mouth, prodding her with investigative fingers and questions.

“She’ll be all right, won’t she, Cressida?” Lavinia asked, her voice pitched to a feathery, ingenuous tone much higher than her normal speaking voice, “Please tell me you can tell what’s wrong with her. I’m ever so worried.” Camilla let her heavy head fall into the curve of her mother’s shoulder, too miserable to care that her concern probably wasn’t real.

“Well,” announced the healer grimly, “It appears that she’s been poisoned.”

Lavinia gave an exquisite gasp that would have been the envy of any starlet of a stage melodrama, and put her arms around her daughter protectively. “But who would do such a thing to a child?”

The healer chuckled humorlessly. “You’d be surprised. It may look like a palace, but it’s a pit of vipers, and some of them wear very pretty scales.” She began to rummage in her bag. “She’ll need a strong emetic. Black brassica seed should do the trick, lots of it, crushed in warm water.” She produced a glass bottle of tiny dark seeds, which she began to grind in a mortar and pestle. Camilla watched her absently, thinking of the similar implement she had seen in her mother’s study, and all the jars of herbs and other things. She wondered why she did not offer to help, if she knew so much about medicines.

Agnes fetched the requested pitcher of water and the concoction was brought to Camilla in a teacup. It smelled terrible, and she turned her face away from it instinctively. “Come, now,” her mother said placatingly, “This will make you feel better.” In the end they had to pinch her nose shut to force her to open her mouth, and then Lavinia tilted the contents of the teacup down her throat, holding it there so that she had to swallow all of the bitingly bitter mixture or choke.

“Get a basin ready,” advised the healer, and someone did. The promise that the medicine would make her feel better proved immediately to be a lie. She fought bravely to keep it down, but her already uneasy stomach bucked against it in rebellion. She felt she ought to warn her mother that if she stayed near her she was in danger of having her beautiful dress ruined.

“M-mother,” Camilla quavered bleakly, “I’m g-going to . . .” and then she doubled over the basin and was helplessly sick, with a violence that wrenched her entire body. The sticky over-sweetness of chocolate curdled into an acidity that seared her throat as it came back up, in a horrible hot, cloying gush. Dimly, she was aware of her mother petting and cooing over her as she retched, and retched, and _retched_, until her stomach was empty and she was bringing up only gasps of bitter-tasting air.

“Better give it to her once more, just to make sure,” said the healer, and the dosage was repeated. She moaned weakly as her abused stomach heaved again and gave the awful medicine up all frothy and acrid, but nothing else. “There’s a good girl,” the healer said indulgently, as though she were a dog that had done something commendable. She managed to muster enough strength to lift her head a little and glare at her, panting, before she gagged and had to lean over the basin again.

At last it was over, and she fell exhausted into her mother’s waiting arms, where she lay listening to the distantly familiar sound of her heartbeat, too tired to do anything but breathe. She felt as limp and empty as a wet rag that had been wrung out. 

A damp towel was brought to her, with which her mother gingerly cleaned the sweat, and tears, and sick from her face. She was allowed to rinse the rancid bitterness from her mouth, and the basin and its horrid contents were taken away. A cup of water was held to her lips to drink, very carefully, in slow, tiny sips that cooled her burning throat. Finally she was eased down again amid the soft deepness of her pillows, and the covers were tucked attentively in around her, and her wyvern doll was pressed into her arms, and a gentle hand was laid on her forehead.

“There, now. Try to sleep, sweeting.”

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear. Mother’s here.”

“Please . . . please don’t leave me.”

She did not hear her mother’s reply. There came a distant, urgent knocking on the outside door and she heard Agnes’s voice return, accompanied by another that she recognized. It was Lady Phyllida’s maid.

“If you please, milady,” there was a rustle of curtsying skirts, “I’ve been sent by my mistress to find the healer. Her little daughter is taken very ill.”

“Hmm,” said the healer knowingly, “I’ll be right there.”

“No!” cried Lavinia sharply, “You can’t leave! How do we know Camilla is out of danger? I insist that you stay with her, Cressida.”

“Please, milady,” repeated the maid, “Lady Phyllida says it’s very serious and to bring you back at once.”

Camilla wanted to tell her healer that she should go, right away, to help Samantha and stop wasting time with her, but she did not have the strength to even form a whisper. She felt herself falling, tumbling helplessly like a doll dropped down the stairs by a careless child. Then, nothing.

She was ill for what seemed a long time, racked with pain and fever and shaking chills, and nightmares from which she woke sobbing. At times she was distantly aware of asking after her sister and begging to be allowed to see her, of the healer coming and going, of a lamp burning throughout the night at her bedside, of her father’s statuelike face looking down at her with a grave expression, of crying out hopelessly for her mother.

And although she wasn’t sure whether it was just a figment of fever delirium and longing, she seemed to have a memory of a presence beside her that moved with the whisper of silk, of a hand gliding tenderly over her hair, of the elusive scent of her mother’s perfume, and the longed-for sound of her voice soothing, “There, there. Hush, now. Mother’s here,” amid the darkness of an interminable night.

*

The desperate edge of delirium receded, but it was still some time before she was able to leave her bed. The fever seemed to have burned up all of her strength like kindling, for something even as simple as sitting up took a heroic effort, and caused the room to tilt and list about her. For days she could eat nothing; one after another a succession of dishes was brought to her, set down at her bedside, and later taken away untouched. The smell of the food made her queasy, so that she hid her head under the covers to escape from it, and a dim memory of pain and horror and sickness left her too afraid to taste it. She was cold all the time.

She slipped in between fits of thin, brittle sleep that melted like patches of leftover snow, waking sweaty and disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. When she was awake she spent hours doing nothing but lie curled up around her empty, aching stomach, staring listlessly through the half-drawn bedcurtains out the window that provided a view of only endless dreary rain and fog, or the distant lights of the outer walls. She felt as hollow and fragile as a china doll, and as numb as one, too. No one answered her questions about Samantha. It was almost as though no one else knew who she was. A tiny part of Camilla began to wonder if perhaps no one else did, and she had only imagined her out of loneliness.

Her mother came and went, but she seemed to find the sickroom too dull to be worth her time, and Camilla’s queries about her sister irked her. She was never entirely certain if she was really there, for she glided in and out of the dreams that muddled her shallow sleep in the same way that she glided in and out of the room. Sometimes she approached with a book in her hands, but she never sat down to read it. Sometimes she bustled through the room, opening or closing the window or the curtains, picking things up as though to tidy but then setting them down again without moving them. Sometimes she simply stood by the bed, watching her with an unreadable expression while she traced her lower lip meditatively with a fingertip. Camilla wondered if she was displeased with her.

She slept, and woke again. 

When she opened her eyes she found Samantha there, leaning against the side of the bed with her head resting on her folded arms. She must have just come in from outside, for there was a summery scent about her of fresh garden air and strawberries. For some reason, Camilla was unsurprised to see her.

“I missed you,” she whispered, reaching for her hand. 

“I missed you, too.” They laced their fingers together, so that their palms touched. Samantha put her head, with its oversized ribbon, to one side and offered her a shy, sad smile. “I’m so sorry, Milla. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”

She heard the door open. Someone was coming. Camilla squeezed her sister’s hand, trying to hold on to her for just a moment more.

“Will I see you again?”

Samantha nodded. She opened her mouth to say something more, but then –

– but then a cloth soaked in water of an unwelcome coldness was being pressed to her forehead, so that intrusive icy rivulets trickled into her hair. Someone was standing by the bed, someone too tall to be her sister. Camilla’s eyes focused dismally on the solemn face looking down at her in the half-light, framed by a plain cleric’s wimple. It was only Cressida. She lifted her limp wrist and pressed her cold, damp fingers to her pulse for a few moments with a professional air, and frowned. Camilla turned her cheek against the hot pillow, not making an effort to hide the tears of bitter disappointment welling up in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, child?” the healer asked, not unkindly.

“I’m cold. And ever so tired,” she sighed, “Every time I wake, I’m more tired than before. I could sleep forever.”

“Have you had aught to eat today?”

She shook her head. The healer made a curt noise but did not press the matter. She folded the cloth with which she had been bathing her face and laid it upon her forehead, but as soon as she had left her bedside Camilla irritably pushed the clammy thing away. She was already cold; she didn’t understand why Cressida should want to make it worse. Finding her wyvern doll amid the tangle of blankets, she wrapped her arm about its neck and burrowed under the covers.

After the examination she half-listened to the adults conversing on the other side of the room, drowsily sucking on her fingers and hoping to fall asleep again. She wanted an extra blanket, but it seemed too much of an effort to ask for one.

“Lavinia, if you don’t get some nourishment into that child soon, she’s not going to pull through.”

“I’ve tried, Cressida! She simply won’t touch any of the food she’s brought. I don’t know what to do for her.”

“Well, perhaps she’ll take it from you,” the healer suggested, meaningfully, “There’s nothing a sick child wants more than her mother.”

The women’s voices continued to drone on meaninglessly. Camilla closed her eyes. 

She opened them next to the sigh of sliding bedcurtains. Her mother was standing beside the bed, limned in firelight. In one hand she carried a steaming teacup and saucer, which she set down on the nightstand. To Camilla’s surprise she seated herself on the bed beside her, and gathered her into her arms to cradle her against herself like a baby. Her closeness made her heart race with anxiety and joy.

“Here, sweeting,” she murmured invitingly, “Try to drink this.” Camilla turned her face away with a whimper as the teacup was brought to her. “It’s just a bit of milk. It should be gentle on your poor tummy. Here.”

She did not want to disappoint her mother, not when she was being so kind to her. Cautiously, she allowed her to coax a little of the warm milk down her throat. It was laced with honey and pleasantly sweet. She felt its warmth spread through her, easing the edge from the dull ache of her insides. Fearfully she waited for it to come up again, but her stomach seemed to accept it. Her mother seemed to be ascertaining the same thing, for she waited a few minutes before offering the cup to her again.

“Mother?” Camilla asked shyly.

“What is it, dear?”

“Will . . . will you sing to me?”

She felt her hesitate, and regretted asking. The thrill of her unaccustomed attention was making her a little lightheaded; perhaps it had made her too reckless.

“I’m afraid I don’t know any lullabies.”

“It doesn’t have to be a lullaby. Please?”

“All right. But you must drink all your milk, like a good child.”

She nodded. It seemed a fair exchange.

Lavinia fed the remainder of the honeyed milk to her gradually, a few sips at a time. While Camilla drank it her mother rested her cheek against the top of her head, and quietly, driftingly she began to hum the tune of the promised song. It was not a lullaby, but a courtly ballad of the lovelorn sort meant to be delivered to the object of one’s unattainable affections with a lute, but Camilla found it soothing nonetheless. While her mother’s voice was not as sweet or clear as Lady Phyllida’s, there was a soft, slightly husky timbre to it like the purr of a cat that made it very pleasant to listen to. Closing her eyes, she laid her head down on her mother’s breast and leaned into the sound of her singing as the melody shaped into words.

_“My love has eyes like winter skies,  
_ _And lips like cherry wine.  
_ _Alas, she smiles not for me,  
_ _Ne’r shall her heart be mine._

_My love has hair like raven’s wings_  
_And skin as fine as frost.  
_ _Alas, I cannot win her heart,  
_ _For long ago, ‘twas lost.”_

She heard the clink of the empty teacup being set upon its saucer, and then her mother’s hand returned to her and rested contemplatively for a moment upon her forehead, cool against her warm skin. She began to smooth her rumpled hair, stroking errant wisps from her face, gently working out tangles, winding a curl around her fingers. Then, leaning down to her, she placed a rare and precious kiss upon her forehead that warmed her to the core of her soul.

Languidly, Camilla began to drift off, secure and warm in the softness of blankets and the comfort of her mother’s love for the first time in what seemed a long, long while. She was almost asleep when she felt her mother sigh, and lean her head back against the headboard.

“I never did all this when you were a baby, you know,” she said softly, and apparently half to herself. “You were handed off to a wet-nurse within an hour of your birth. As was I, I imagine. All the little things that are supposed to make motherhood so sweet – feeding you, rocking you, singing you to sleep . . . the heavy little head against my heart, the big, trusting eyes gazing into mine, the dimpled baby smiles and the chubby, petal-soft little cheeks . . .” Her fingers brushed over her cheek in a featherlight caress. Camilla lay very still, afraid that if she showed any sign of wakefulness, it would cease. “I didn’t want any of it.”

Her chest lifted and fell once, as she exhaled the breath of a rueful laugh, without humor.

“You were such a tiresome baby, too. You used to cry all the time, always clamoring for attention. You were probably just lonely, poor sweet thing. I’ve always wondered, when I hear you playing with your dolls like that, the way you dote on them so, where you learned to do such things. Not from me, certainly.” She let her hand fall, and sighed. “I suppose I should be grateful, to have been given another chance. But oh, my poor girl.” Her arms encircled her, drawing the blanket a little higher and holding her a little closer. “My darling, my dear,” she whispered, in a voice that no one was intended to hear, “My poor girl. I never meant for it to be like this.”

*

After a time, the fever faded, and Camilla was well enough to sit up in bed for a short while, propped up on pillows, to look at picture books or play quietly with her dolls, and take a little of the oat porridge, or tea, or chicken soup that was brought to her. She still tired quickly, and so her mother brought in a hanging mobile of the sort used to entertain babies, and hung it up in the window where it could catch an occasional breeze. It was childish, but when she lacked the energy to do anything else she found she was content simply to look at the silly toy, watching the flat, painted wooden shapes of hearts and stars, knights and horses, princesses and castles revolving around and around.

Light returned as lamps were turned up again, and the room that had long gone untidied was set to rights. Everything was made clean, and nice, and pretty again, including Camilla herself, who was taken out and put into a hot bath, then dressed in a clean nightdress and returned to a bed made up with fresh linens. A vase of pink roses, sent by Father as a gift, stood on the bedside table, alongside a few smaller bunches of flowers and notes bearing well-wishes from some of the other mothers. To her disappointment, none had come from Lady Phyllida. When Camilla asked if she could send flowers to Samantha, her mother seemed not to have heard her.

The reason for the sudden storm of tidiness was made clear that afternoon when Lavinia came in with the news that she had a visitor. The tight, cordial reservation in her face filled Camilla with unexpected hope. Clearly it was someone she did not very much want her to see, but was allowing, anyway. She sat up, clutching the covers in breathless eagerness as she waited for Samantha to appear.

But she did not come. Instead, it was Xander who entered, bearing a bouquet of lilacs. He crossed the room to her bedside, moving a little stiffly, but no longer burdened by a cast. Lavinia left them, closing the door most of the way behind her.

“Xander! You’re better! I’m so glad.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, too, little sister.”

They put their arms around each other and hugged each other tight. It seemed a long time before her brother was willing to let her go.

“Xander,” Camilla asked softly into his shoulder. It was not a question she wanted to know the answer to, but one she had to. “Please tell me what’s happened to Samantha. No one will tell me. They’re all behaving like she doesn’t even exist. Please, tell me she’s all right.”

He was silent for a long moment, and her heart sank, and sank.

“I’m so sorry, Camilla. She . . . she died, along with her mother.”

“No! No!!” She pressed her trembling lips together, but could not hold back a sob. In her heart she felt she knew, she had known all along, but it had not really been real until she had heard the truth spoken in a voice she trusted. Xander let her cry, patiently holding her up as she leaned on him and sobbed. Despite the pain of knowing, she was glad he had been the one to tell her, for the weight of grief would have been too heavy for her weakened self to bear alone, and she did not think anyone else would have helped her carry it.

“But how?” she demanded, lifting her tear-wet face to look up at him. There were tears in his eyes, too, although he was stoically trying to prevent them from falling. “Lady Phyllida couldn’t have eaten the chocolates; we left them in the garden!”

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that. I think . . . her sorrow was just too much for her to bear.” There seemed to be more that he wasn’t telling her, but could not find the words to explain. Instead, he offered her his handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I know you were close to her.”

“But . . . but what’s going to happen to the bunny?” she wailed suddenly, her eyes flowing over with fresh tears. On top of everything else, the thought of the poor creature Samantha had loved all alone with no one to care for it was overwhelmingly sad.

“Shh, shh. Don’t worry. Father gave me the bunny to take care of. I promise, I’ll take good care of her.”

Camilla hiccupped. Xander climbed up to sit on the edge of the bed next to her and patted her back. She leaned against his shoulder, as her tears began to dwindle into sniffles.

“It’s a strange thing,” he said pensively, after a time. “About the bunny, I mean. When Father went to console Lady Phyllida, she said that she had thought the chocolates were from him. That’s why she let Samantha have them. But of course, they weren’t.”

“Why did she think that?”

“Because they were bunny-shaped, weren’t they? And he knew how much she loved the bunny he had given her. She thought it was a little joke from him.”

“Then who _did _send them?”

“I don’t think anyone knows yet. I doubt if they’ll be able to find out. Shops like that don’t keep records of all their clients, and even then whoever sent them would doubtless have sent someone else to purchase them. Who else knew about Samantha’s bunny?”

“I did. But I told Mother, and Lady Beatrix and Roxana. Who knows who else they told.” Camilla’s gaze fell on the lilacs Xander had brought, lying on the bedside table. Their scent brought back the memory of the afternoon she and Samantha had shaken the blossoms into each other’s hair, and her breath hitched in her throat. “I don’t understand!”

“Well, they couldn’t have come poisoned from the shop,” Xander reasoned, parsing the mystery out for himself, “Someone must have hired an assassin to buy them, poison them, and then deliver them. I don’t suppose it was hard to do. That’s what’s so frightening about it.”

Camilla shook her head. He was missing her point. “But who would want to hurt Samantha?” she cried.

For that, he had no answer. He only put his arm around her and drew her a little closer. “I don’t know. But you’ll be safe, I promise. I won’t let anyone else harm you.”

Camilla sighed. “Thank you, big brother.” She wanted to believe him, but it was the same promise she had made to their sister, and one she had been unable to keep.


	7. Chapter Seven

A few days later, Camilla was dawdling hesitantly before the closed door of the throne room. It was not a place she particularly liked to be, for the austerity and importance of the solemn room always intimidated her, but at her mother’s insistence she had come to present herself to the King. Drawing in a breath to steady herself, she reached up and knocked on the looming black door.

She did not really expect a response, and was half-hoping she would be able to return home and say she had not been granted admittance, but after a few moments her father’s heavy voice intoned, “Enter.”

The door was imposingly tall and weighty with gold inlay, and swung ponderously open as she pushed against it until there was a space just wide enough to admit herself. On the far side of the colonnaded hall, her father sat upon his somber throne in an unkingly slouch, with his head propped up on one fist. The room, illuminated only by intermittent iron candelabra, was otherwise empty of anyone but echoes; no advisors attended him and even the Queen’s throne at his side was bare. He cast his eyes dispassionately in her direction as she entered, likely expecting to have to deal with the encroach of an unwanted petitioner on his solitude, but when he saw the little lilac-haired figure making her way uncertainly down the royal carpet amid the shadows cast by the sparsely flickering candles, he raised his head. His normally impassive, dignified face was etched with lines of sorrow, and she realized that he was mourning the loss of someone he loved, too.

“Camilla,” he said, in a voice softening with surprise.

“Father.”

At the foot of the lofty dais she made the customary curtsy, embarrassed when she wobbled a little in it. He waved off the formality and held out his arms to her.

“I’m so glad to see you looking well, my child,” he said, setting her upon his knee. “I feared I would lose you, too.”

She cast her eyes down to the red velvet carpet beneath them. She could feel the sting of tears, but she did not want to cry again.

“I miss her, Father. I miss her so much.”

“I know, little one. Samantha was precious to me, too.” He petted her head with his big hand, stopping to run his thumb over the curve of one of her tiny horns. There was nothing more either of them could say to console each other, but knowing that the loss was shared made it feel a little lighter in Camilla’s heart, just a little.

“Come, child,” he said, “I hate to see you so unhappy. Come with me. I know something that may cheer you.” Setting her down, he took her by the hand.

She followed him, curiously watching his face for any expression that might hint at the surprise, but apart from a slight smile his countenance was unreadable. He led her to the upper floors, considerately slowing his pace to match hers, and when the effort of climbing stairs left her out of breath he hoisted her up onto his shoulder and carried her there.

Camilla’s heart began to beat fast with anticipation as they passed the stables and approached the tower where the wyverns roosted. “Father!” she cried, “Are we going to see the wyverns?”

Ducking through the door so as not to bump her head on the lintel, he set her down on the straw-littered floor with a chuckle. The eyrie master, a stout, muscular woman in a leather apron and gloves, greeted them deferentially as Camilla stood looking about herself with slowly awakening joy. It had been some time since she had been allowed to visit the wyverns. The eyrie was a large, spacious circular tower, with giant nesting boxes arranged in tiers along the walls. The space above them was crossed with heavy timber beams for roosting, and great shutter doors in the ceiling opened to the sky. The shutters stood open now, to let the beasts out to soar, hunt, and play for the day, but a few of the boxes were occupied by brooding mother wyverns.

King Garon led Camilla to one of these. Inside, upon a bed of straw lined with scraps of tattered silk, tarnished bits of silver, loose gemstones, and other scavenged baubles, lay a beautiful mother wyvern. Her scales gleamed a lustrous silver-black, and the eye that opened lazily to regard Camilla was a deep amber speckled with red. From beneath the fold of her wing came a cheeping, chirring chorus of tiny voices.

“Here, old girl,” said the eyrie master, tossing a shank of meat into the nest. It was a goat’s leg, and, forgetting, Camilla almost remarked that it was a good thing Samantha had not come with them, because she would have felt sorry for the poor goat. Then she remembered, and her heart fell.

Father put his hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he bade her. From beneath the mother’s wing emerged a parade of wobbly baby reptiles, squeaking and wheeking as they stumped along on their little bowlegs, flapping their tiny leathery wings for balance. They homed in on the snack, and their mother tore off strips of meat and scattered them before her brood before settling her gleaming teeth into it for herself. Leaning on her folded arms over the edge of the box, Camilla watched the baby wyverns as they devoured their dinner with enthusiasm and then tumbled around the nest like kittens, nipping and pouncing and chasing their siblings. The mother curled around them in a sinuous arc, setting a perimeter with the curve of her tail to prevent them from wiggling too far away.

One whelp took notice of its audience of three humans, and stopped playing to teeter in their direction. Charmed, Camilla reached her hand down into the box to greet it. The mother regarded her with one amber eye, but seemed to appraise her as an insufficient threat and only flicked the end of her spiked tail indolently. The baby wyvern latched onto her hand and climbed up the length of her arm with tiny, pricking claws. From snout to tailtip it was only as big as her forearm.

“Father, look!” she laughed in delight.

He chuckled. “It seems you’ve made a friend.”

She held the wyvern on her arm, stroking its soft, silky new scales and tickling the nubs of its baby horns while her father had a conversation with the eyrie master. Its scales were a deep, inky purple-black with a slight pearly cast, and its eyes were like tiny drops of raspberry cordial.

“Aye,” she overheard the woman explaining, “these ones are about ready to be separated. If they spend much more time in the nest, the siblings start tryin’ to eat each other.”

“Camilla,” said her father, returning to her. She looked up at him, afraid he would tell her that it was time to leave. “How would you like to pick out one of these wyverns to keep for your own?”

“Father! Do you mean it? I can have one of my own?” He nodded. Wordlessly, she clasped the baby wyvern in her arms and beamed up at him. She was so happy she was unable to even to find the words to thank him, but his smile told her that he understood.

The eyrie master took the baby from her and looked it over. “You’ve a fine girl there, princess. Her mother, Fortunata, is one of our best fliers.”

The King patted Camilla’s hair affectionately. “Then when she is big enough, you shall have riding lessons.”

*

At first, Marzia – for that was her name, after the great Nohrian queen she had seen in Xander’s book so long ago – was very small, able to ride on Camilla’s shoulder or nestle in her pinafore pocket, and paddle around in her bath with her, and sleep on her pillow, coiled snugly around her arm. But she grew quickly, and within weeks she was the size of a cat, big enough to be dressed in doll’s clothes and ribbons, and have her claws and tailspikes painted with nail lacquer borrowed from Lavinia’s dressing table, and eat muffins from the little china plates of Camilla’s tea set. She still liked to perch on her shoulder, although she did not fit very well, and splash in the bath, and burrow through the tunnels and caves Camilla made for her out of her bedclothes at night, and nibble her ears and her fingers with tiny, tickling teeth. She followed her little mistress everywhere, flapping madly after her as she dashed through the halls of the castle and inspiring terror in the servants, disapproval among the mothers, and envy in Camilla’s siblings.

They gathered around to see her when Camilla held her out proudly perched on her arm, shrieking in delight when she flapped her growing wings out to their full length and gave a throaty baby roar. She allowed them to feed her hazelnuts and apple slices from their open palms, which only the bravest would approach to do. Roxana sneered, but Camilla couldn’t help noticing that she still did not have the ballista she had bragged about.

Lavinia, who had been unusually gentle and tolerant with her daughter of late, did not exactly approve, believing such a pet to be unsuitable for a princess, and her ambition to become a wyvern rider even less so, but for once, she let Camilla have her way. Perhaps she felt pity for her after all the terrible things that had happened to her recently, or perhaps she simply did not want to contradict a decision made by the King. At all events, Marzia was a permanent member of the family.

Months went by, and Camilla’s old strength and steadiness came back to her as she ran and played with her wyvern out on the snowy castle grounds, returning afterwards to cuddle by the fireside with hot cocoa and cookies for both of them. She found she could still enjoy chocolate, to her surprise, although ever after there were certain bitter spices that she simply could not abide, because the taste of them dredged up a memory of something horrible.

The only cloud over her contentment was that she wished that she could have introduced Marzia to Samantha and her mother. She wished she could have shared her happiness with them.

*

One afternoon in early spring, Marzia was lolloping about on the rug before the fireplace while Camilla rummaged cheerfully through her collection of babydoll clothes. Taking one edge of the rug in her teeth, the wyvern rolled over until she had swaddled herself in a plush tunnel, churring happily in the warmth of the fire.

Laughing, Camilla unrolled her and drew her into her lap as she began to dress her in the clothes she had selected, a sweet ruffled frock and bonnet that she herself had used to wear. Marzia flapped her wings indignantly as Camilla persisted in threading them through the armholes of the dress. She was beginning to grow impatient with being dressed up, and she had already outgrown most of the doll clothes. Camilla contemplated a pair of tiny bloomers, wondering if it was worth cutting a hole in them to accommodate the wyvern’s tail. Marzia was already squiggling herself around in an effort to bite the laces of her bonnet. She settled on tying a pink hair ribbon around her tail, then scooped her up in her arms, kissed her snout, and plumped her into a doll’s pram. She wheeled her proudly to the home of Lady Primula, where she was shown in by a somewhat reluctant-looking maid.

“Her Highness, Princess Camilla,” she announced at the door of the drawing room. It was filled with vases of cut flowers, as Lady Primula liked it, so many that their scent was almost as strong as the castle gardens whence they had come. As Camilla had hoped, her baby siblings were with their mother, playing on the rug with wooden toys, but to her surprise, Lady Isolde was there as well. Both women rose in polite deference to her when she entered, which made her a little uncomfortable, as Lady Isolde’s baby was visibly quite far along by now. She realized with regret that she was probably intruding on a social call, but it was too late to turn around and show herself out.

“If you please, Lady Primula,” she asked, “May we play with the babies?”

Lady Primula offered her an indulgent smile. “Of course, dear. They do so love to play with their big sister.” She cast a nervous glance to the pram as Camilla hefted out its occupant, seeming to realize that the princess had not merely been speaking in the royal plural. “Oh . . . you’ve brought your pet along, have you?”

“Marzia is ever so gentle!” Camilla promised, setting her down on the rug, “They’ll love her!” Delphinium and Gladiolus immediately abandoned their blocks and toy animals to regard the newcomer. The live wyvern was much more interesting than their carved wooden dragon on wheels. Delphinium pushed herself up onto her feet, toddled a few steps closer, then plopped down onto her bottom a safe distance away, leaning forward to see what the creature would do. More boldly, Gladiolus crawled over to peer curiously beneath the bonnet at the bright-eyed, scaly face, and gave a gurgly shout of surprise and delight when he was rewarded with a flick of Marzia’s candle-quick forked tongue.

Camilla guided his hand to pet the wyvern’s sinuous neck, then enticed her to chase a baby rattle she shook for her. Marzia pounced on it, seizing it from her hand with surprising strength and shaking it like a rat in a way that made Gladiolus squeal with glee. Within a few minutes he was joyously scooting on his hands and knees after the lithe creature as she zipped around the room, darting under and over furniture with her beribboned tail whisking behind her like a flag. Camilla glanced at Lady Primula, who was watching tensely, but after a little while she seemed content that her darling would not come to harm, and relaxed, albeit a little warily.

Camilla drew Delphinium into her lap and cuddled her. Apart from Roxana, whose sulky company was not particularly enjoyable, the baby was the only sister she had left, and the thought filled her with a wistful loneliness. “Delphie,” she sang, leaning her cheek against the bonnetted little head, “We sisters have to stick together, don’t we?”

“It’s a pity you never had the chance to know your sister Grace,” Lady Isolde said, surprising Camilla, who had heard her speak of her lost child only rarely, “You and she might have been great friends.”

“Poor baby Grace,” Lady Primula sighed, in tones of somewhat perfunctory sympathy, for after all, her own two babies were there with her, safe and happy, “Such a tragedy.”

“It was,” Lady Isolde replied, astringently, “That was before your time, Primula. It was only Lavinia and I back then. But I daresay time only dulls the grief; it does not erase it. One can only hope _you _never have the same misfortune, to have a healthy, beautiful child torn from you so cruelly, by an illness so keen and so sudden you are powerless to fight it.”

No one had anything to say to that. For a moment the only sound was the babbling of Delphinium in Camilla’s arms, and a breathy chortling from Gladiolus as he chased Marzia under the couch. Looking uncomfortable, Lady Primula changed the subject by addressing Camilla brightly. “Well . . . you might have another sister soon, Camilla dear! Mightn’t she, Isolde?”

Lady Isolde shook her head. “This one is a boy. I can feel it.” She looked so sad that Camilla set Delphinium down and came to her.

“May I talk to him?” she asked.

“If you wish.”

Camilla slid herself up onto the silk-cushioned sofa next to her. “Does he have a name yet?”

Lady Isolde circled the roundness of her belly with her hands. “I believe I shall call him Leo.”

Camilla leaned down and laid her ear against the place she imagined him to be. “Leo,” she called softly, “Hello, Leo. I’m your big sister! I can’t wait to meet you!”

“How precious,” Lady Primula smiled. 

Lady Isolde chuckled lightly. She rested her hand on Camilla’s head and slowly ran her fingers the length of her hair a few times. “Lavinia is very fortunate, to have such a sweet and thoughtful daughter.”

Camilla sat up, surprised. She had never had reason to consider herself sweet or thoughtful before. Her mother reminded her, not infrequently, that she was a greedy and self-centered child, and she felt a prickle of guilt for giving the two ladies a false impression of herself. She feared she had deceived them into praising her.

She twisted a lock of her hair anxiously around her fingers, feeling she ought to say something to measure up to Lady Isolde’s perception of her. “I’m sorry I never got to know Grace,” she said, looking up into the lady’s solemn eyes, “I think I would have loved her.”

Lady Isolde’s pale eyebrows came together, and she appeared about to say something, but her words were truncated by an abrupt crash, a screech from Marzia, and a howl from Gladiolus, which prompted his twin sister to begin howling, as well. A curtain rod was clanging against the floor as the baby attempted to free himself from the heavy curtain by which he had found himself unexpectedly blanketed. He flailed about beneath it while Marzia flapped in the air above him, chirping reproachfully.

With a cry of dismay, Primula rushed to extract her wailing son from his prison. She swept him up and clasped him to herself, crooning reassurances. “Poor baby! Did that naughty flappy beast pull the curtain down on baby’s poor head?”

Camilla’s cheeks went hot with chagrin. She held out her arm and the wyvern swooped to her like a falcon, knocking over a vase of tulips as she came. It seemed to her that Gladiolus might have pulled the curtain down upon himself after Marzia climbed it to escape from him, but she did not wish to contradict Lady Primula. The din of the squalling twins would have made any attempts at argument impossible, anyway. Hastily she bundled the thrashing wyvern back into her pram and wheeled her away with a hurried farewell to the two ladies. 

She was not certain, but as she left, she thought she saw Lady Isolde smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some debate about whether Marzia is the canon name for Camilla's wyvern or whether it's just widely-accepted fanon. It was listed on her wiki entry for a while but has since been removed, and I've heard that she's called Marzia in Japanese source materials but I've never seen it officially cited anywhere. But it's the name that writers for the Gay Fates hack, including me, agreed to use, so Marzia she is. (She also does still have painted toenails and wear a ribbon on her tail, because Camilla is fancy. ;))
> 
> Btw! You can see high-res versions of all the chapter art on my DeviantArt page: https://www.deviantart.com/summonermintywolf


	8. Chapter Eight

One night in late June when Camilla was nine, she was awakened by the sound of a woman’s scream from somewhere in the castle. Unsettled, she slid from her bed and went to find her mother. Marzia, who was now the size of a large dog, waddled after her.

She found Lavinia still awake, sitting up in bed with a book open but unread in her lap, pensively tracing her lower lip with one of her lacquered fingernails.

“Mother,” she called sleepily from the doorway. Marzia butted her in the side, and she put her arms around her head and scratched her reassuringly behind the horns.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I can hear someone screaming.”

She could see her mother preparing to tell her that it was just a dream and she should go back to bed, when another unearthly wail of pain punctured the stillness of the night.

“See! What’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

“It’s probably Lady Isolde in childbed. Her baby is expected any day now.”

“Will she be all right?”

“Of course. Cressida will be with her. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Go back to bed, darling.”

A susurration of women’s voices in the outside hall told them that they were not the only ones awake. Sighing, Lavinia closed her book and shrugged on her dressing-gown which lay across the foot of the bed.

Outside, the mothers were gathering, floaty and doll-like in a collection of velvet dressing-gowns and lacy silk bed jackets. Without their makeup, fine dresses, and jewelry, they all looked younger, soft and uncertain. They could have passed for a gaggle of girls at a fancy boarding school rather than a king’s mistresses. An occasional sleepy-eyed child in pajamas lingered at their elbows, bewildered by all the bustle and excitement in the middle of the night.

Lady Celandine, her fair hair braided into two beribboned pigtails, fluttered to Lavinia and looked up at her anxiously. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, dear. Let’s wait and see, shall we?”

Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid spilled out of Lady Adelheid’s apartment door together.

“What’s all the fuss, girls?”

“Is it Isolde’s time?”

“Oooh, I expect you’re right! How exciting!”

“It is not, in fact, Isolde’s time,” said Lady Isolde wryly as she joined them, supporting her weighty belly with both hands, “Although by this point I rather wish it was. What is going on out here?”

“Why, dear Isolde,” Lady Beatrix went to her in an attitude of concern, “Ought you not to be in bed? I thought you were in confinement!”

“I thought so too,” replied Lady Isolde, “But it was a false alarm. He’s decided to take his time.”

“If you’re here,” demanded Lady Lynnette, “then who is making all that racket?”

As if on cue another anguished howl echoed down the castle corridor, making Camilla’s hair stand on end. She reached down to run her hand along Marzia’s scales for reassurance.

The mothers looked to each other, taking inventory of themselves. “Where’s Primula?” asked Lady Elaine, the mother of timid Edgar, who was anchored to her by a fistful of her nightgown. They all looked down the hall in the direction the dreadful screaming had come. Then everyone looked to Lavinia for guidance.

With a sigh that went unheard by everyone except Camilla, she led the way briskly to her apartments and knocked on the door. “Primula, dearest, is everything all right?”

After a few moments the door was opened by a harried-looking maid. “Oh, miladies. I’m afraid you’ve come at a terrible time. Mistress is . . . indisposed. There’s been a-a tragedy.”

“Let them in!” called out Lady Primula’s voice from within, raw with suffering, “I want to see their faces!”

The maid gave an uncertain curtsy, and showed in the assembly of nightgowned women and children. Camilla came in last, for Marzia was still following her, and she did not want her to get in anyone’s way. After her last visit she doubted Lady Primula would really want the half-grown wyvern in her apartments again, but she didn’t want to take her back home and miss what was happening. No one else was paying her enough attention to notice and send her away.

They found Lady Primula in a pretty nursery arrayed in tones of soft yellow and green, with flowers painted on the walls and furniture. Two matching cradles with ruffled canopies stood side by side against one wall, with a cushioned rocking chair nearby. Lady Primula was crouched on the floor in her nightdress, her hair loose and streaming in disarray over her shoulders. She looked up at the entering women with wide, wild eyes that were red with tears, and staggered to her feet with the help of Cressida, who stood beside her, leaning on her staff. They gathered hesitantly by the door, so that their children had to push through them to see what was happening.

“Why, Primula! Whatever is the matter?” exclaimed Lady Adelheid, approaching her with outstretched arms.

“Don’t touch me!” Lady Primula rasped. “It was one of you! One of you loveless harpies did this!” She flung her arm in the direction of the cradles, and the awful truth of the situation rippled through the assembled mothers in a series of little gasps. Apart from Lady Primula’s ragged breathing, the room was still in a way that a nursery should not have been. From the infant twins Delphinium and Gladiolus there was no sound at all.

“Mummy! They’re dead!” realized Roxana aloud, bluntly. Camilla cried out in dismay and started forward, but her mother caught and yanked her back by the elbow. Drawing her against her side, she put an arm around her and held her there firmly.

“Oh, Primula, how dreadful,” Lavinia cooed sympathetically to the distraught woman, and the sentiment was echoed by a chorus of sorrowful murmurs. Lady Celandine ran to look inside the cradles, recoiled, and burst into tears.

“Come now, Primula,” Lady Beatrix attempted to mollify her, “You have every right to be upset, but you can’t think that one of _ us _–”

“I _ know _ it was!” shrilled Lady Primula, “You were always jealous of me, all of you! Me, and my perfect children!” Her voice broke, and she staggered a step closer, “This was no accident! This was not some commonplace illness, although it was disguised as one, yes! Had Cressida not been here, I might never have known, but she confirmed the truth for me! My babies were _ murdered! _”

The accused women drew back against each other, exchanging scandalized glances and whispers. The healer laid a hand on Lady Primula’s shoulder, speaking pacifyingly in her low, steady voice, but she was shaken off. Edgar began to whimper. “Primula,” said Lady Elaine sharply, “Control yourself. This is not something the children should be seeing.”

“Let them see! They should know what kind of women their mothers are. You’re all wild beasts, the lot of you, ready to tear each other and each other’s children apart as soon as it’s to your advantage. You’re no better than that creature there!” She stabbed an emphatic finger in the direction of Marzia, which Camilla found an unfair assessment of her character.

“Camilla,” reproved Lady Klara in a hiss, “This is hardly the place for that pet of yours. Why don’t you take it home?”

Camilla looked up to her mother for confirmation, but Lavinia’s eyes were on Lady Primula, and she paid her no mind. Unsure of what else to do, she called her wyvern to her and started home on her own, with Marzia stumping along behind her. She could hear Lady Primula’s voice, hoarse with grief and desperation, echoing behind her from the hall. “I hope your children sleep sweetly tonight, because someday one of you mothers shall know the pain I feel, I’ll make sure of it!”

After that, Camilla did not sleep at all.

The storm of scandal surrounding the death of Lady Primula’s twins passed over with surprising ease. An inquest was made, and the cause of death was officially declared to be a sudden illness, although the widespread rumor was that there was magic behind it. The killing spell, and whose dark sorcery had wrought it, was never deduced. 

Everyone’s attention, however, was quickly diverted by the arrival of Baby Leo, the boy his mother had predicted, and presently things more or less returned to normal in the mistresses’ wing of the castle, minus two babies, and plus one more. Camilla wondered if it had been the same when Samantha had died, if anyone had even really bothered to wonder why.

Still, it was summer, and it was hard to be sad _ all _the time when the flower gardens were awash with an artist’s fantasy of color and fragrance, and the berry trellises and orchards burgeoning with fruit. Camilla dashed laughing across the length of the gardens, reveling in the strength and freedom of her growing legs and bare feet in the cool grass. She and Xander were halter-training Marzia, and the wyvern glided after her like a kite on a long rope lead. A nearby gardener looked up from his work as she approached, and she veered around him to avoid disturbing him with the downdraft of Marzia’s powerful wings.

“She’s doing well!” appraised Xander when she returned to him. Beaming, Camilla allowed the wyvern to land next to her and offered her a strawberry from her pinafore pocket as a treat. Marzia laid her big head on her shoulder, snuffing contentedly as Camilla patted her neck. “Let’s try getting her to come when you call her,” he suggested.

She frisked back across the length of the garden. At the far end she paused to catch her breath, taking in deep lungfuls of the summer-scented air. She sneezed.

“Camilla, look out!” Xander’s voice rang out with the urgency of an alarm bell. Turning, she saw the gardener advancing on her with a strange, detached expression. She gasped, dancing a few steps away from him, and then the sun caught a glint on something in his hand and she saw what had so alarmed her brother. He was holding a knife – not a gardening tool, but a long, slim, sharp dagger.

Xander was charging down the garden path with his practice sword drawn. “Halt, knave!” he shouted, with all the ferocity his twelve-year-old voice could project. The gardener hesitated, glancing from one child to the other, and then at something else behind them both, and did not halt. Camilla flung herself down upon the grass as he threw the dagger in her direction, seemingly as a last resort, and then made a sprint for the garden wall. He did not get very far. With a screech of fury, Marzia slammed down upon him like a shot from a trebuchet. 

Xander ran to Camilla. “Sister! Are you all right?” She rolled over to look up at him, and he gasped in horror to see the red, wet stain spreading across the white of her pinafore. 

“I . . . I think so,” she said, finding herself shaky but unhurt. She put her hand in her pinafore pocket and regretfully produced a handful of mashed strawberry pulp. The dagger was lying harmlessly in the grass a few feet away.

Crouched over the body of her fallen enemy, Marzia reared back her head and crowed in triumph.

“But why,” Camilla asked tremulously as Xander helped her to her feet, “Why would the gardener want to hurt me?”

“I don’t think he was really a gardener.”

The two children approached tentatively, hand in hand. Camilla put her sticky fingers in her mouth and solemnly regarded the wreck of the man Marzia had left behind. By this point he bore more than a passing resemblance to the strawberries she had taken out of her pocket. The wyvern pranced back to her mistress proudly and butted her head against her for approval, leaving a vivid red smear across her already-ruined pinafore. Camilla stroked her scaly neck with a trembling hand.

Afterwards she ran home, on legs that were still a little shaky from excitement, with Marzia tagging close behind.

“Mother!” she called from the foyer. There was no answering call, but catching the sound of her mother’s voice, she followed it in the direction of the parlor. As she approached, an ongoing conversation with someone behind the closed door became audible to her.

“. . . and half when the deed is done. These bamboo arrows will make it look like a shot from a Hoshidan yumi, and the coating will assure death.”

“Mother!” cried Camilla, bursting through the door. Immediately she regretted her impulsiveness, for her mother swiftly rose to her feet and towered over her, her eyes blazing with ire. Camilla shrank back in instinctive fear, and confusion, for there was a strange, rough-looking man she had never seen before standing before the parlor table. As she entered he quickly swiped a clinking coin pouch and a quiver of red-fletched arrows from the table, stowing them beneath his cloak so that they seemed to disappear.

“I’ll take my leave, my lady,” he said quietly, and departed with a bow, casting the blood-sullied child and wyvern a raised eyebrow on the way out.

“Camilla! You should know better than to barge in on someone else’s conversation like that!”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but . . .”

“What in the _ world _has happened to you? And where are your shoes?”

She glanced down at the ghastly red-streaked pinafore at which her mother was staring. “Oh . . . I’m all right, Mother. This isn’t mine. Marzia ate a man in the garden that tried to attack me! He had a knife!”

“Your wyvern . . . _ ate _a man?”

“She saved me! He was trying to kill me! Xander and I were training Marzia in the garden, and the gardener came at me with a knife, but Xander said he wasn’t really a gardener, and he threw the knife at me! And Marzia jumped on him and tore him to pieces! And I fell down and squished some strawberries that were in my pocket.”

Lavinia, whose eyebrows had been rising steadily towards her hairline over the course of this report, blinked a few times. “An assassin? An assassin tried to kill you?”

“I . . . I suppose so.” Succinctly summarized like that, the encounter sounded a lot less dramatic.

She began to pace the room with a rustling of skirts. “That lunatic Primula must have been behind it, I’m sure of it. She’s been hysterical ever since the death of her children. I’m sure she thinks I must have had something to do with it, as though her silly babies were any concern of mine!”

Camilla watched her. She was hoping for a hug, or words of reassurance after her harrowing adventure, or even just a pat on the head, but as none seemed forthcoming she consoled herself by putting her arms around Marzia’s neck.

“Beatrix,” Lavinia mused, drawing the lady’s name out in a thoughtful murmur. “She did get defensive right away, didn’t she? She seemed to be taking Primula’s accusation personally. And come to think of it, she seemed very invested in Isolde’s being in childbed that night. But why? To cover up sounds of a disturbance? To ensure that Cressida’s attention would be elsewhere? And how? She’s only a strategist, not a dark mage. Unless . . .”

At last, Camilla’s mother seemed to notice her.

“Darling, you’re a mess. Why don’t you go ask Agnes to draw you a bath?”

“Yes, Mother.” Trailing the wyvern along by her halter, Camilla went to do as she was told. A vase of purple foxgloves on an end table fell victim to an errant swipe of Marzia’s tail as she turned to follow her out, but Lavinia only sighed.

Marzia was so big now that the two of them scarcely fit in the bath together, and suds sloshed over the sides of the tub when she climbed in with her. But she still delighted in the hot water and the feeling of having her scales scrubbed clean with a sponge, even though quite a lot of the bathwater ended up on the floor when she flailed her tail in appreciation.

Afterwards the wyvern leaned against her, wriggling joyously as she received a toweling with an enthusiasm that nearly knocked her off her feet. Camilla tried to mop up the worst of the puddles with a soggy, inadequate towel, but she was afraid she still left quite a mess behind for Agnes.

Dressed in the clean frock that had been laid out for her, she went back to her bedroom. It was nearly bare now, for all of her toys had been safely put away to spare them from the wyvern’s boisterous rampages. All that remained was a large leather ball, covered in claw marks, and a splintered wooden broom handle that Marzia liked to chew.

Camilla climbed up onto her bed and leaned against the pillows with a sigh. Marzia flopped herself up next to her, taking up most of the bed, and plunked her heavy, horned head into her lap. She looked up in adoration at her little mistress as she took her head in her hands and massaged her thumbs against the base of her horns.

“You saved my life,” she said appreciatively, “I’ll never forget that. You’ll be my friend forever.” Marzia thumped her tail at the sound of her voice, knocking a pillow to the floor, and gnawed affectionately on her arm. Camilla tensed, as she had begun to since the wyvern had become bigger than herself, but the sharp teeth were still gentle on her skin.

“Camilla,” said Lavinia softly from the doorway. Camilla looked up, wondering how long she had been there. 

“Mother?”

“I think it’s time for Marzia to return to the eyrie, don’t you? She’s growing up very quickly, and it’s hardly fair to her to keep her indoors in such a small space as this. Especially now that she’s learning to fight. She should be among other wyverns.” Camilla put her arms around Marzia’s neck in protest, but she couldn’t help admitting that her mother had a point. If nothing else, it had become rather hard to sleep with the sinuous, scaly body wresting the covers away from her all night. “You’ll still be able to visit her whenever you like. And now that she’s gotten so big, I think it’s about time you began riding lessons.” 

Camilla drew her breath in and held it, looking up at her mother in openmouthed joy and surprise. Lavinia’s lips curved and bestowed upon her daughter a rare smile.

“After all, the most important part of being a wyvern rider is knowing how to ride a wyvern!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's terrible but I can't help seeing Lady Primula yelling at Marzia like the meme woman yelling at a cat. :P


	9. Chapter Nine

When Camilla returned to the eyrie to visit Marzia the next morning, her wyvern greeted her with an ecstatic roar and thumping of her tail against the wooden floorboards as she came to butt her head against her in affection. She had missed her, but the wyvern seemed happy in the spacious eyrie, where she had room to stretch her wings. 

Her first morning of riding lessons proved to have very little to do with riding. Outside, the eyrie master demonstrated how to put a wyvern saddle on Marzia, and most of the morning was spent getting her used to wearing it. Camilla was rather glad she was not riding, because at first the wyvern rolled around on the ground and flipped herself end over end through the air trying to rid herself of it. Eventually, she resigned herself to her new outfit, and Camilla praised her with pats and treats of dried meat. When the lesson was over, they released her to play with the other wyverns, and she watched her soar off to join the rest of her flight with wistful satisfaction.

In the afternoon she went to the armory, where Xander had requested to meet her. 

“I’ve asked Father for permission to begin training you how to fight,” he explained, “After what happened yesterday, I think it would be best if you knew how to defend yourself in combat.”

Camilla bounced up and down in delight. “Oh, Xander! Really? I’m to learn to fight too?”

He chuckled. “You might not find it so exciting when you realize how much work is involved, little sister. But I admire your enthusiasm. Come and pick out a weapon.”

He had had a weapon rack brought out for her with a selection of blunted practice swords, lances, axes, and daggers. Camilla ran to it. She knew exactly what she wanted, what she had always wanted. The worn steel battleaxe was taller than herself and even heavier than she had expected when she lifted it with both hands, causing her to stagger backwards under its weight, but she did not back down from her decision.

“All right,” said Xander, smiling. She must have looked silly, a little girl in a pinafore and hair ribbons dragging along a battleaxe like she meant business, but he did not tease her. Selecting a sword and shield for himself, he led her out to the courtyard.

“There’s a dragon vein here!” she exclaimed when they arrived. She could feel its hum calling to her through her horns and in her blood.

“Very good! I wondered if you’d be able to sense it. Can you tap into it?”

She stepped into the center of the courtyard, where a circle of stones inlaid in the flagstone floor ringed a mosaic of the royal crest of Nohr. She could feel the latent energy of the ancient dragon power thrumming beneath her feet. Concentrating, she closed her eyes and focused on it. Energy shimmered and shivered around her; she felt as though she was beginning to hover over the ground even though her feet were still planted firmly on the stones, and then a pleasant tingling sensation crawled over her skin like an early spring breeze.

“Good!” said Xander.

“What is it?”

“It’s a circle of protection. It will heal you of small injuries if you get hurt.”

“Maybe I had better stand here for a little while, then. Just until I get the knack of this.”

From then on they met every afternoon to train. Xander was a gentle and patient teacher, and while Camilla started out with much more enthusiasm than skill, she quickly learned the right way to place her feet, how to swing the heavy axe without losing her balance, how to block an incoming thrust from a sword or spear with the axehaft, how to catch an opponent off-guard by feinting, and how to perform a leaping strike so that the axehead came down with all her weight behind it.

She was learning how to handle Marzia, too, reveling in her strength and grace as she swooped and soared through the air in response to her bidding. She could not wait for the day she would learn how to combine both sets of skills, and become a real wyvern rider, to be knighted under her father’s command as Xander would be, someday soon.

The passage of a year saw both child and wyvern grow taller, stronger, and faster than they had been, both growing into new confidence and surefooted grace, although Marzia was getting there much more rapidly than Camilla was. There were other lessons, too, of a more princessly nature: ballroom dancing, posture and elocution, the finer points of how to dress and comport herself with elegance, how to sew and embroider, and how to play the cello, prettily if not well. She enjoyed these pursuits almost as much as axe-fighting and wyvern-riding, eager to become the elegant lady her mother was, and that Lady Phyllida had promised she would be, in a time that seemed so long ago now.

One afternoon’s training session was interrupted by a sudden downpour of the sort Nohrians had become accustomed to, and so Xander and Camilla took refuge under an awning by the courtyard wall while they waited for it to pass. The siblings passed a flask of mint tea between them, leaning against the wall and looking up at the somber sky.

“It seems an age since we’ve seen the sun,” sighed Camilla, “It gets ever so dreary sometimes.”

“It’s been getting worse,” agreed Xander solemnly, “But we’re better off here than most. At least we have the dragon veins protecting the gardens and orchards. Father says that in the rest of the country, crops have been failing and livestock have been dying because of the darkness and the bad weather. He says the people are starting to grow restless.”

Camilla fidgeted with her bootlace. She thought of sumptuous lunch they had had of roast pheasant, and honeyed carrots and parsnips, and crusty bread newly baked that morning, with fresh soft butter. There had been a delectable cream cake to follow, meltingly soaked in caramel. She felt guilty. If a hungry Nohrian peasant had appeared to her then, she would have gladly given her lunch away, but she hadn’t known there were any hungry peasants, until now.

“Can’t we share some of our food with the people of Nohr?”

“The castle gardens can’t produce enough food for all of Nohr! They don’t even provide enough food for everyone in the castle sometimes.”

“Then what is Father going to do?”

“Mother is going to be undertaking a goodwill mission to Hoshido. She hopes to open trade routes with them, and offer Nohrian gems and stone in exchange for Hoshidan crops.”

“But I thought the Hoshidans were the enemy!”

“Well . . . I suppose it’s complicated. Things have been tense between Nohr and Hoshido for years, maybe even as long as history. But we haven’t been at outright war with them in a long time. Maybe Mother can bring peace between us.”

“Peace,” Camilla repeated. It had a nice sound.

“I’ve heard the new Hoshidan queen is kind and generous, although she has powerful magic. Maybe she’ll convince King Sumeragi to put aside old hostilities and open the borders.”

“My teacher said the weather’s always nice in Hoshido because of the blessing of the Dawn Dragon. They must have more crops than they know what to do with. They ought to share with us! It’s only fair.”

Xander chuckled at his sister’s fervent scowl. “Hopefully, Mother will be able to make them feel the same way.”

He was wrong. Less than a week later, all of Nohr was plunged into mourning when the news came of the death of its Queen. Her body soon followed, borne slowly home in a carriage through streets lined with solemn Nohrians, as the darkened sky overhead rained without cease. Her party had brought back no aid to its suffering citizens; the trade agreement had failed.

The moment Camilla heard the news she dashed off in search of her brother, through the halls of a castle that seemed to echo with sighs and the sounds of tears. She found him outside the door to the throne room, staring at the floor, as though trying to gather the courage to go inside.

“Xander!” she called, trotting towards him with outstretched arms. She drew up sharply to a halt, however, when a figure in black and gold sorcerer’s robes she hadn’t taken notice of before stepped forth and intercepted her. Looking up, she found herself the object of a frown on the supercilious face of her father’s new advisor, Iago, or at least, the side of his face she could see. The other side was, as always, obscured behind a gold half-mask. She shuffled uneasily. Her previous encounters with the sorcerer, recently appointed as King Garon’s tactician, had been brief, for she tried to stay out of his way. His disdainful demeanor towards her made it clear that he did not care for children.

“Run along, child,” he told her coldly, “This is a matter only of concern to the royal family.”

“Then it concerns me, too,” Camilla insisted, with a little stomp of her foot, “Let me through! My brother needs me.”

“Camilla is a member of the royal family,” agreed Xander, coming around him, “And I would like to have my sister with me at this time.”

“As his Highness wishes.” Placing a hand to his chest, Iago stepped aside with a curt bow that did not seem quite deep enough to be properly respectful.

Camilla ran to her brother and stood on her toes to throw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Xander! I’m so sorry! How terrible for you.”

The two children stood like that for a while, with their arms around each other. Finally Xander released her, and turned away so she could not see him wipe his eyes. “Mother is just inside,” he said hoarsely, gesturing to the closed door, “Father is with her, but . . . I haven’t been able to bring myself to go in.” Camilla found his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“It’s all right. Take your time.”

He sighed a breath that shuddered under the weight of tears. “I still don’t know all the details. They said that unrest broke out during the peace negotiations, for some reason, and then there was a battle. They told me . . . Mother fought valiantly on behalf of Nohr, but she was killed. Felled by a Hoshidan arrow.”

“Oh, Xander,” whispered Camilla, and then, vehemently, “The Hoshidans should pay for this!” Then she stopped, wondering. The mention of the Hoshidan arrow was tugging at something in her memory, but she could not call to mind what it was. It was like finding a stick in the forest and attempting to pick it up, only to discover that it was attached to an entire fallen tree limb, covered in leaves and too heavy to lift.

“An outright war with Hoshido wouldn’t be good for anyone,” he said somberly, “But it may come to that. It’s up to Father to decide. Come on,” he sighed, “I’m glad you’re with me, little sister.”

Pushing open the heavy door, they entered the throne room, hand in hand. Queen Katerina lay on a bier in the center of the vaulted chamber. Her spear lay beside her, its blade cleaned of the detritus of battle, and her shield was laid over her, newly polished so that the Norhian royal emblem emblazoned upon it shone silver. Her armor and her crown were burnished to a fine sheen, and her hair had been neatly arrayed in golden curls that framed her head like the corona of light around the unseen sun. Her proud, elegant face was composed, serene, and still.

Their father stood beside her, his face closed in grief. In profile he resembled an aging bear, with his head bowed over his hunched shoulders, and the lines of strength and dignity that had defined his posture still visible, but sagging under the heaviness of sorrow, and approaching age. He said nothing to the two children as they approached, and came to stand tentatively beside him. Xander lifted his head, because his father did not, and tried to put on his bravest face. Camilla leaned her head against his shoulder in solidarity.

“Hoshidan dogs,” the King growled, his voice a low rumble of barely-contained menace, “They will answer for their treachery.” He did not seem to be speaking to them. He did not even seem to realize they were there. Without a word to either of them, he turned and brushed past his children so roughly that his ermine robe swept over them, and stormed heavily out of the throne room.

  
  


The only person in all of Nohr who seemed happy with the turn of events was Lavinia. When Camilla arrived home, red-eyed and worn out from an afternoon of crying in sympathy with her brother, her mother sailed joyfully to her and crushed her against herself in a hug. Camilla stiffened in her arms, caught off-guard by the unprecedented display of endearment.

“My darling!” she sang, “You’re home! I’ve been waiting for you. I suppose you’ve already heard the news. I couldn’t wait to share it with you.”

“Yes, Mother. But . . .”

“I’ll have a splendid dinner sent up for us, shall I? What would you like?”

“Um. Just some bread and jam, I think. I’m not really very hungry . . .”

“Why, what’s the matter, sweeting? Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Lavinia cupped her cheeks in her hands. Camilla had to prevent herself from flinching, because ordinarily if her mother paid any attention to her cheeks it was to criticize the roundness of them, but she only squished her face affectionately. Then she went and dropped onto the sofa with a fluttering of silk and a dreamy sigh, as though her giddiness prevented her from standing up any longer.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Camilla came to her side in concern.

“Yes, of course, dear. Better than I’ve ever been.”

“Mother . . . the Queen is dead.” She felt she had to make sure she knew, that they were both talking about the same news.

“Yes, I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. But of course, you already found out. Spoilsport,” she teased, and beckoned her closer with a regal gesture of one white hand, “Come, sit with me.”

Shyly, Camilla did as she was bidden. She feared that any minute now, her mother’s attitude would snap back to its habitual indifference to her. She decided she ought to take advantage of the effusive outpouring of goodwill while she could. Lavinia drew her onto her lap as though she were a little girl and cuddled her, so that she was enveloped in a nest of silk skirts and deep velvet cushions, and the perfumed softness of her mother’s arms.

Tucking a lock of Camilla’s hair away from her face, she leaned in so close it was almost a kiss. “Perhaps,” she whispered, in the melting tone of one sharing a delicious and irresistible secret, “it is not you who will be Queen, after all.”


	10. Chapter Ten

Before Lavinia had time to ingratiate herself with the King of Nohr, however, he departed quite abruptly from the castle, with only a small company of knights and without much warning. The ebon doors of the throne room were closed, and the hall beyond them lay dark and shrouded in a tomblike silence. It made Camilla uneasy to think of the throne of the entire kingdom standing empty upon the royal dais. She had no desire to sit there herself, now or at any time, but _ someone _needed to.

Her mother, while perturbed by the setback, decided to make the most of her free time by taking Camilla into Windmire with her to have “a few” new gowns made, in preparation for the King’s return. The streets of the capital city were all but deserted; black banners of mourning hung from windows and streetlamps, and the glass storefronts of many of the shops in the fashion district were dark. They found a lantern burning against the gloom outside their destination, however, and the big picture window out front was lit up, showing a display of two mannequins in autumn-colored gowns and fur-trimmed capelets, poised so that they seemed to suggest an attitude of elegant indifference to passersby in the street below, despite their lack of faces.

Evidently, Lavinia’s visit to the shop was an event of some importance, for they were greeted by two stylishly-dressed old ladies who hailed her arrival like that of a returning hero.

“Lady Lavinia! Such a delight to see you again. Do come in—”

“—We’ve everything prepared for you. I’ll put some tea on, right away—”

“—And this little cherub must be your daughter! How old are you, dear?—”

“—It’s always such a pleasure to see you, Lady Lavinia. Right this way . . .”

Tea was procured, and a specially-prepared parlor was opened, where a stack of pattern books and fashion magazines lay on the table ready to be perused, and a dress form already shaped to her mother’s measurements stood in the corner like a maid awaiting instructions.

After the initial bustle, the procedure of obtaining a dress turned out to be less exciting than it had at first seemed, and mostly involved hours of waiting while her mother pored over pattern books and bolts of cloth, discussing current fashions and the season’s most stylish fabrics with the seamstresses. Bolt after bolt of silk, velvet, brocade, and cashmere were presented for her approval, and the two dressmakers discussed, in tones of rapt adoration, how best to compliment her lovely complexion, her extraordinary hair, her perfect figure, as though Lavinia were a work of art in need of a frame. In return, her mother praised their skill at dressmaking, their eye for color and design, the fineness of their fabrics, in a way that made them giggle and redouble their affections.

Apparently forgotten on a velvet-cushioned bench next to Agnes, Camilla wondered if the women fawning over her mother knew who she was – the King’s favorite, possibly soon to be the Queen – or if they simply knew her as a noblewoman who wore clothes very well and gave them a lot of business. A little selfishly, she wondered if they knew that it was the King’s own daughter sitting ignored beside a growing pile of rejected fabrics.

She leaned her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin wistfully in her hands. It might be nice, to be someone who wore clothes so well and so elegantly that to sew for her was a delight, and to be able to make such easy conversation that everyone she spoke with found her charming. She felt suddenly quite aware of the collection of little scrapes and bruises on display across her arms from the previous week’s training sessions, the clumsy bandage on one knee, the skirt that was becoming unfashionably short as she outgrew it, and the unformed roundness of her figure that Lavinia never seemed to let her forget. In spite of all of her recent lessons on posture, grace, and elocution, she still felt like a chubby, floppy ragdoll next to the finely-sculpted porcelain figurine that was her mother.

Camilla drew a length of discarded crewel across her lap and began idly tracing the woven flower pattern with her fingers. Her back ached from sitting on the bench for so long, and she was starting to get sleepy. She looked out the window, wondering how much time had passed, but the color of the sky did not offer much indication. It was dark outside, as always. A solitary carriage rolled by. Beneath a streetlamp, a man in a long opera cape and muffler checked his pocket watch. Lavinia and the seamstresses seemed to have settled on a season’s worth of dress patterns and fabrics, and moved on to a discussion of undergarments.

She was starting to nod off when she heard her mother say, “And why don’t we have some new things made for Camilla, while we’re here?” That perked her up immediately. She had never been part of the dressmaking process before; ordinarily her mother selected patterns for her and sent Agnes into town to order her new clothes.

Behind a dressing-screen in the corner she stood in her chemise while the two old ladies encircled her with tape measures. She squared her shoulders, pulled in her stomach, and tried her hardest to look like someone who would wear a dress elegantly. They chuckled and petted her and called her a doll, which was not the same thing.

On the parlor sofa Lavinia invited her to sit encircled by her arm as they leafed through a book of children’s fashions open across their laps. Camilla lingered over the designs, hoping to make her closeness last as long as it could. One of the dressmakers hovered nearby, offering suggestions and praise for her selections while the other went about the room gathering and rewinding the strewn bolts of fabric. Agnes looked out the window. A couple in Cyrkensian dress hurried by arm in arm. The man in the opera cape was still standing beneath the streetlamp.

When at last they departed, it was with orders placed for a new winter wardrobe for Camilla and an array of gowns fit for a Queen’s trousseau for her mother, and a shopping bag full of silk stockings, hair ribbons, and other oddments in the arms of Agnes as she followed them out. Lavinia was in high spirits; Camilla could tell by the way she allowed her to continue to hold her hand as they stepped out onto the wet sidewalk. She even paused to pull the hood of her daughter’s cloak up over her head, to protect her from the rain that had begun to fall.

“One more stop, shall we?” she asked with a conspiratorial smile, indicating a shop across the street whose window display showcased a pair of girls’ winter boots trimmed with fur of a snowy white softness. Leading Camilla by the hand, she passed their waiting carriage and started across the cobbled street.

Suddenly, Agnes’s voice rang out behind them in alarm. “My lady! Look out!”

Camilla froze. She had never heard Agnes raise her voice before, let alone in a shout of such urgency and command. Before she had time to react, the maid dashed past her, shoving her and her mother abruptly aside as something zipped through the air between them, so fast and so close that Camilla felt the chill wind of its passing on her face. The man in the opera cape had put away his pocketwatch, and beneath the volumes of his cloak he was holding a crossbow. He turned to run, disappearing from sight as he vacated the glow of the streetlamp, but Agnes drew something – a pair of daggers – from amid the volumes of her petticoats and sent them after him with a whip of her arm. They flashed once as they spiraled through the ring of lamplight and then they too disappeared into the darkness. From the dark there came a sharp groan, followed by the sound of a body falling onto the pavement.

“Are you well, my lady?” Agnes asked.

“Gracious!” murmured Lavinia. “That was a near thing.” She looked down at Camilla, who had flung her arms about her and was clinging to her like a very little girl in the terror of the moment. “There, there, dear. It’s all taken care of. Nothing to fear now.”

“Are you all right, Mother? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, darling. Don’t fret. Mother’s fine.”

“We’re so lucky Agnes was here,” Camilla said, with a shaky breath, “And that she knows how to throw a knife like that!” Her heart was still beating fast, both with the sharpness of the sudden fright and the thrill of the way the maid had dealt with it.

“Why, that’s the reason I hired her. It’s a valuable skill in a bodyguard.”

Camilla looked in surprise at the maid, in her neat uniform and crisp white apron, who had retrieved her daggers and returned them primly to their hidden sheaths in her garters. She had never given her much thought before. The young woman had been a permanent fixture of her life for as long as she could remember, and most of her time was occupied in being devoted to Camilla’s mother.

“Agnes . . . is a bodyguard?”

Agnes bowed formally, causing her short hair to bob over her shoulders. “Yes, miss. In Nohr, it is not uncommon for a maid serving the nobility to be trained as such.”

“Perhaps we had better forgo the shoes and head straight home,” decided Lavinia.

“I think that would be wise, my lady.” Agnes retrieved the spilled parcels she had dropped and shoved them quickly back into the shopping bag. Camilla, still too startled to object, nodded.

The next day Lavinia regaled Lady Isolde, Lady Primula, Lady Beatrix, and Roxana with a somewhat heightened narrative of the events over tea. Agnes, the incidental heroine of the tale, poured the tea and handed out the teacups in silence, then bowed her way out of the conversation without involving herself in it. She seemed uncomfortable to be made the object of attention.

“What a dreadful thing! How frightening for you and dear Camilla,” said Lady Beatrix, “I am _ so _ glad you both escaped harm.”

“Yes, how fortunate you had such a capable attendant nearby,” agreed Lady Isolde, who was seated next to Camilla. She gave her hand a reassuring little pat, as though to soothe her from the fright that had already since passed.

“It was a near escape,” replied Lavinia airily, “but fortunately, I am not an easy woman to kill.” This was delivered with an incisive look to Lady Primula, whose eyes widened in surprise. Lavinia lifted her teacup to her lips as though to hide her smile demurely, but not so demurely that her audience could not see it.

Camilla noticed that none of the other women touched their tea until her mother had taken a sip from her own cup. She supposed they might have been simply deferring to her out of politeness, but since the death of the Queen the hum of tension between the mothers, which had always echoed in the background of their interactions like the resonance of a plucked harpstring, had grown somewhat louder. Smiles seemed tighter, and compliments and condolences were traded a little too glibly to be sincere. She felt a prickle of indignation on her mother’s behalf that the other ladies might not trust her offer of tea.

Conversation turned, inevitably, to the absence of the King. It seemed the vacant throne had cast a shadow over everyone’s thoughts.

“Mummy?” piped up Roxana with interest, “Is it true that Father’s gone mad?”

“What! Where did you hear such a thing?”

“From Lady Adelheid and Lady Lynnette. I overheard them talking. They were saying that when Queen Katerina died it sent him around the bend and he left the castle in a fit of madness, with only his horse for company.”

“Dear, it’s not nice to eavesdrop,” Lady Beatrix said mildly, but her voice was noticeably a bit strained. Roxana only rolled her eyes.

“Well, I do hope he returns soon,” said Lady Primula, “That wretched Iago is really becoming too much to bear, the way he struts about in the King’s absence. Why, just the other day I was on my way to the royal library to find some books on gardening, and he stopped me in the hall to demand whither I was bound! As though it was any business of his! And then when I inquired, quite politely, if he knew where the King had gone and when he would be returning, he told me I ought not to bother my pretty little head about it and sent me home! Can you believe the nerve?”

The other women exchanged murmurs of agreement. Camilla reached for another pink-iced tea biscuit, but at a covert nudge from her mother she withdrew her hand. Roxana took it instead, and bit into it with a deliberate crunch. Camilla looked away in annoyance. She was tired of the company of Roxana and the other mothers. She wanted to be with Xander, but since his mother’s death he had sequestered himself in mourning and did not wish to see anyone, or at least, that was what Iago had told her when she had tried to visit him to relate yesterday’s adventure. She wondered if she had been lied to. The thought made her angry, and she wanted to storm up to the royal wing of the palace that instant.

“Mother? May I be excused?” she asked.

“As you wish, dear. Take Agnes with you, if you’re leaving the apartment.”

“Why don’t you go, too?” suggested Lady Beatrix to Roxana, who looked disgruntled about it, “You girls run along and play. Mind you stay together, now.”

This was not what Camilla had wanted, but she was grateful for any excuse to leave the table. She departed with her unwilling guest, and the maid following silently behind them. Roxana rejected the idea of visiting Xander, so Camilla purposefully set off for the eyrie, knowing her sister would not tolerate the company of the wyverns for very long and perhaps would leave her alone.

“So which one of them do you think did it?” whispered Roxana, sidling up beside her.

“Did what?”

“Hired the assassin, of course. Didn’t you think to wonder who could have wanted you and your mother dead?”

“Mother’s a noblewoman,” fumbled Camilla, “It’s expected that she might have political enemies.”

Roxana snorted. “You don’t think that attack came from _ outside _ the palace, did you?” She rummaged around in her pocket for another pilfered tea biscuit and took a bite from it, without offering to share. “Your mother obviously knew it was one of the other mothers. That’s why she had that stupid tea party, to brag about how she survived and prove that she knows it was one of them.”

“You don’t know that. Mother just likes to have an audience.”

“Hah. You’re right about that.”

“But why would any of them want to hurt Mother? I thought they were friends!” Roxana began to laugh, in a pointed way that did not invite her to join in. “What?” demanded Camilla, “What’s so funny about that?”

“You know what, never mind. Stay adorable, Camilla. I wish I lived in the same Nohr as you.”

*

“Mother?” Camilla asked when Lavinia came to tuck her in that night, a habit she had only recently adopted, “Is it true what Roxana said? Did Father really go mad and leave the castle with only his horse for company?”

“You ought not to put so much store in what Roxana says,” replied her mother, smoothing the blankets over her.

“But is it true?”

“It’s true that he departed the castle with only a token company of soldiers. Whether he did so in a fit of madness is only crass rumor and speculation.”

“Where did he go?”

“That’s the King’s own business.”

“Is he going to come back?”

“Of course he is! He wouldn’t simply run off and leave his kingdom and his family behind.”

Feeling a little assuaged, Camilla wrapped her arms around her wyvern doll and settled into the pillows. “Mother?”

“Full of questions tonight, aren’t you?” But her tone was gentle, and tolerant.

“Are you really going to be the Queen?”

Lavinia smiled, a secret smile that made her seem to glow from the inside and lovelier than ever. “That remains to be seen. But let’s keep it between us, shall we?” Leaning down she left her with a kiss upon her forehead full of warmth and unspoken promises. Camilla feel asleep smiling, listening to the crackle of the fire and the familiar ticking of the mantle clock.

Everything would be all right again once Father came home. Mother would be Queen, and they would be safe under the protection of the King from lurking threats in the dark, and there would be wedding banquets, and royal balls and galas, and her new dresses to look forward to. Everything would be all right.


	11. Chapter Eleven

A few days later Camilla, by way of the secret passage behind her mother’s chambers, infiltrated the royal wing of the palace beneath the notice of Iago and determinedly sought out her brother. She found him alone in a glass-walled lunarium whose ceiling of sloped windows let in a view of the endless jeweled dark of the sky. Night-blooming flowers surrounded him in fragrant abundance** – **pale trumpets of moonflowers winding their way up trellises, tender stalks of white tuberoses, white hydrangeas, sweet alyssum, and clusters of tiny jasmine flowers hanging overhead like garlands. Xander was seated on a bench with Samantha’s bunny in his lap, letting her nibble a sprig of silvery sage leaves. The thought of him here all alone, for days, with no one but the silent little creature for solace made her heart break.

“This was Mother’s garden,” he said when she came to sit beside him, “The flowers here bloom when there is no sun. It’s a nice place for moongazing, too. She always could see beauty in Nohr, even amid the darkness.” 

Camilla leaned her head against his shoulder and looked admiringly at the surrounding garden. “It’s very lovely. I can see why it was special to her.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly at length, stroking the rabbit’s ears.

“I wanted to come sooner! Horrid old Iago wouldn’t let me in. He said you didn’t want visitors, but I found a way to sneak in. I hope that’s all right.”

He frowned. “I never told him I didn’t want visitors.”

“Then he _was _lying!” She scuffed her toes angrily against the stone-tiled floor, “We ought to tell Father, when he gets back. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.” Xander nodded, but did not reply. Camilla stood. “Come,” she said impulsively, “let’s go for a ride! It’s not raining, and it’ll be nice to get out of the castle for a while.”

Her brother looked dubious. “I doubt Iago would let me leave, if he’s not allowing anyone to enter.”

She tossed her hair dismissively over her shoulder. “You’re the crown prince! He’s only Father’s advisor. He can’t tell you what to do.” She could see that he wanted to come with her, but a struggle with his deep-seated sense of duty was keeping him from giving in. Taking his hands, she tugged persistently until he was standing. “Come on! I’ll smuggle you out the way I came in, and Iago will never be the wiser.”

“I admit I tire of being cooped up in this dreary castle by that dreary jailor,” he conceded, “I feel his eyes are on me even when I can’t see him.”

They stopped by his chambers first to return the rabbit to her hutch and fetch a pair of riding cloaks from a wardrobe. In an antechamber, Camilla caught the sound of two voices rising and falling in conversation, and paused.

“My new retainers, Nestor and Irene,” her brother explained in response to her unspoken question, “Father assigned them to me before he left. I’ve never had personal attendants other than my valet before. I must confess, it’s a bit awkward.” He sighed, and his shoulders sank under the weight of responsibility. “I should inform them of our plans. They’ll probably advise us against going out. At the very least, they’ll want to accompany us.”

“They don’t have to know,” Camilla insisted recklessly, “_I’ll_ protect you.”

It was a thin and pale half-smile, but it was the first smile she had seen him give in a long time.

“I’ll bring my sword,” he decided. When he returned with it, Camilla was surprised to see not the comfortable steel blade he used for practice nor the ornamental silver one he wore for show, but a massive black greatsword in a gold-inlaid sheath.

“What is that?” Camilla exclaimed as he buckled it somberly onto his back, “That’s not your normal sword!”

The prince unsheathed the dark blade and held it out to her with both hands. The solemnity in his expression made her afraid to touch it. It was nearly as tall as she was, elegant and fearsome, with twin edges polished to a dark mirror sheen like clear ice on a still lake at night.

“Oh! I’ve seen that sword before!” she remembered suddenly, “In a portrait of Father, in Mother’s room.”

“This is Siegfried,” explained Xander, “It’s an heirloom of the royal house of Nohr. It used to belong to Father. He handed it down to me, before he left.”

“It looks heavy.”

He nodded, but returned it to its sheath without trouble. She took his hand and led him back through a strategic path of unused rooms the way she had come, dodging the eyes of passing servants. Once outside the confines of the inner palace, no one seemed to question them other than to stand aside with a respectful bow as they passed, for they knew how to carry themselves like royal children, with confidence and purpose.

“You know your way around the castle,” Xander commented, “I hadn’t even known about some of those passages.”

“Samantha and I used to love to go exploring,” she replied, a little wistfully, “We found all sorts of secret ways. I’m sure there are even more that we haven’t discovered yet.”

Leading the way, Camilla passed the stables and climbed the steps to the outer wall. “Did you not wish to go riding?” inquired Xander. She threw him a smile over her shoulder. 

“I do! But we’ll never get out of here on horses. Come with me.” On horseback, there was nowhere to go but the hard, close streets of the stone-dense city to the east, or the austere manicured lawns of the villas of the nobility to the west, but on wings, the entire sky was open to them.

“Have my wyvern saddled and brought to me, please,” she commanded the eyrie master when they arrived.

“As you wish, Princess.”

Marzia was prepared and brought to her accordingly. The wyvern lashed her tail gleefully as Camilla stroked her scaly neck. Catching hold of her harness, she drew the great horned head down to her and held her still. “You’ll be a good girl for Xander, won’t you?” she crooned, “He’s never ridden a wyvern before. Have you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“You’ll love it,” she promised. She held the dancing beast still for him to climb onto her back, which he did with admirable willingness, and then climbed up before him, settling herself into the saddle with the ease of familiarity. “Hold on tight,” she instructed, and his arms encircled her waist. It was fun, to be the one showing her brother how to do something for once. She took the reins, and they soared up, and up, and up.

“Look!” Camilla cried joyfully. Already the city lay far beneath them like a brooch dropped by a noblewoman, with its stone walls like spirals of filigree, set with the jewels of twinkling lights. She felt his grip on her waist tighten slightly, and laughed. Her hood had been flung back in their ascent and the cold, clear wind riffled through her hair. Marzia beat the air with her powerful wings, holding them aloft.

“It’s beautiful,” Xander said, “I’ve never seen Windmire like this.”

“I love it up here,” said Camilla, looking around at the panorama of star-strewn sky, drifting cloud banks like patches of floating moonlight, and the distant foothills of the mountains. “Sometimes, when Mother’s cross with me, or I’m upset, I come up here. The rest of Nohr seems so far away. I’ve never gone far beyond the city on my own, though. I wonder what’s out there.”

Taking a firmer hold on her with one arm, Xander leaned forward a little to balance himself and pointed to the south with the other. “The Woods of the Forlorn are that way,” he explained, indicating a barely-visible fuzz of trees on the horizon, “and Father’s palace in Macarath, and the dukedom of Cheve.” He pointed to the east. “That way is the Bottomless Canyon, on the border between Nohr and Hoshido.” He moved his hand to a space in between, “that way lies Mount Garou, where the Wolfskin Tribe make their home, and beyond that, the Sea of Nohr. Somewhere out there is the island of Notre Sagesse.” Camilla sighed, a little impatiently. She had voiced her question more in the spirit of wishfulness and adventure, and had not intended to receive a geography lesson in response. But then Xander said, “That’s where Father has gone.”

She looked in the direction of the sea he had indicated, although she could not see it. “To Notre Sagesse? What for? What’s there?”

“It’s the home of the Rainbow Sage. It is said that those who undertake a pilgrimage to his sanctuary atop Mount Sagesse will receive a blessing of great power. But for all of history, only one is known to have survived the ordeal, and that was King Sumeragi of Hoshido.”

He let his hand fall, and put his arms about her again. Camilla bit her lip. It was cold in the sky, and this revelation had made her colder still. She was glad for her brother’s warmth and the solidness of his presence.

“Then there is to be a war with Hoshido,” she murmured, “He must be seeking the same power that the Hoshidans have, so he can meet their King in combat.”

“He did not tell me the reason he left, only where he was going. But that was my guess, too.”

She twisted around in the saddle to look up at him. “But he’ll come back, won’t he Xander? He wouldn’t leave us like that, would he?”

“Of course not. Father is a capable warrior. He wouldn’t have undertaken such a dangerous journey if he did not think he could prove its equal. He’ll come back, you’ll see.”

Feeling a little better, Camilla let Marzia glide in meandering circles, descending slowly. “I wish he would come back soon!” she said with vehemence, “Everything has been so wretched at home since he left. All the mothers are so tense and unfriendly with each other now and no one seems to trust each other, and someone’s been after Mother, and poor Lady Primula is ill, and Roxana has been so nasty to me. Mother keeps saying that everything will be all right once he comes home, but no one seems to know when that will _be_.” She sighed. “I just wish everything could be the way it used to be.”

“I do, too,” replied Xander quietly. Camilla caught her breath sharply. She had forgotten that her mother’s good fortune and all her promises of a rosy future had come at the cost of his own mother. She looked down at the city below, bitterly sorry that she might have hurt him in her carelessness, and wished she knew how to heal her brother’s sorrow and make him happy again. On a whim, she nudged Marzia in the side with her heels.

“Hold on!” she cried, and spurred the wyvern into a swoop. Xander caught hold of her waist as his breath left him in a shout of surprise. Camilla led Marzia in an aerial dance of swirling spirals and tail-chasing figures-of-eight beneath the starlit sky. The wyvern screeched in delight, reveling in the rush of air as cold and clear as silver through her outstretched wings. Camilla echoed the sound, and beneath the shriek of their voices and the whirling wind, she heard her brother laughing.

  
  


When they returned to the palace, they found Iago waiting for them, along with two smartly-dressed knights Camilla took to be Xander’s new retainers, and a small company of castle guards. Her heart sank. She had gotten her brother into trouble. It was up to her to defend him, and take responsibility for what she had done. She folded her arms as the sorcerer approached, prickling with indignation at the smugness she could see on his face.

“Miss Camilla,” Iago addressed her in his officious drawl before she could say anything, “You are under arrest for the kidnapping of the crown prince.”

Camilla’s stomach leapt the way it did when Marzia went into a dive. “Kidnapping?” she echoed in disbelief, hating how young and silly her voice sounded, how lacking in the command she had meant to project, “I didn’t . . . I didn’t _kidnap _him! We were only out riding my wyvern!”

“You absconded with him from the royal chambers with deliberate intent to deceive and avoid his guards, did you not? And removed him from the castle grounds?”

“Well, yes, but . . .” She wanted to explain that the only way they had left the castle grounds was to fly above them, but he did not let her continue. At a gesture from him, two of the soldiers stepped forward and flanked her, each taking her firmly by the arm. Neither of them looked particularly comfortable about it. “Let me go!” she cried in outrage.

“Young lady, surely you realize the enormity of such a crime,” continued Iago, “A threat on the life of the crown prince, even by a child, is tantamount to treason.”

“Tr-treason?!”

“Enough, Iago.” Xander stepped between them. “There has been no treason here. My sister – Her Highness, Princess Camilla of Nohr is her full title, and I’ll thank you to remember that – has committed no crime. I left the castle with her of my own volition, and the indiscretion in doing so without attendants was my own.” To the two soldiers he commanded, “Unhand your princess at once.”

They obeyed, with a swift muttering of, “Apologies, your Highness.”

Camilla stormed back to her brother. Drawing herself up to her full height – which was not inconsiderable, except that it was still the height of a ten-year-old girl – she scowled up into the face of the sneering sorcerer. “You just wait until Father comes home! I’ll make sure he hears about this! I shouldn’t like to be in your place when he returns!”

  
  


But the King did not return, not for several months. In his absence, tensions in the Rose Wing continued to simmer, without ever quite overheating. Camilla recognized the particular tightness in the atmosphere, like the pressure in the air before a storm. The mothers felt the same way now that the children did in the weeks before one of them would be chosen to accompany Father on one of his special outings. Each of them determined, desperate to emerge as the most beautiful, the most charming, the most cunning, the _best_, in order to be the one to catch his attention when the time came for him to choose.

She wondered if what Roxana had insinuated was true, if the mothers would really turn on one another to improve their own chances. Lady Primula had said so, on the night her children had died, in words of prophecy or accusation. But Lady Primula was dead now, too; in the intervening weeks she had quietly succumbed to her illness, been quietly mourned, and quietly more or less forgotten about. 

The attempts on Lavinia’s life did not cease, however. It became rare for her to go two weeks together without having to evade some new threat: a bandit ambush in the city streets, an ill-intentioned archer or untimely rockfall while out riding, a carafe of poisoned wine. In spite of these misadventures, or perhaps because of them, she did not retreat from society. She kept Agnes close by, hired a series of food tasters to secure herself against poison, began to carry a spell tome with her wherever she went in the event that she might have to engage in combat, and continued to flaunt herself in public. She never missed a social engagement, wearing her enduring good health like a badge of victory over her unnamed rivals.

Camilla, meanwhile, grew fretful and sick with the exhaustion of constant worry. When not at lessons or with Xander she followed her mother everywhere, peppering her with concerns about her safety to the point that she was sure Lavinia was quite tired of her presence, but she was willing to endure her short temper if it meant knowing that she was all right. Her tummy hurt most of the time, although she was never sure whether it was from poison or merely the fear of it. At night she lay awake for hours in dread of the encroach of unseen assassins, and when she finally slept, her dreams were filled with them.

  
  


“You’re not looking well, sister,” Xander remarked in concern when she came to visit him one afternoon, “Are you all right?”

Camilla nodded listlessly. “I’m just . . . a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” A board game lay on the table between them, but she was having a hard time focusing her attention on it. Ever since the day of her attempted arrest she had faithfully kept up her visits to her brother, for fear that he would be lonely without her. But the effort of worrying over him and worrying over her mother was wearing on her. “I’m . . . I’m so afraid something will happen to Mother,” she admitted, “I don’t want to lose her.”

Xander looked at her gravely. Camilla cast her eyes down, regretting that she might have prodded a sore place in his heart, but he reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I know,” he said gently, and sighed. “I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, little sister. But I suppose that is the price of responsibility, that fear. When you are in a place of power, there will always be those seeking to take it from you, for their own deceitful gain. The only thing you can do is become strong enough to protect yourself, and the ones you care about.” He squeezed her hand, fondly. “That’s why I’ve been training you, so you’ll be prepared to face danger when it comes.”

She remembered the accidents he had suffered when they were younger, the sharpened practice weapons, the runaway pony. There had been other incidents, too, but as he had grown older, he had stopped mentioning them. It occurred to her now that that did not mean they had ceased. At the time she had assumed the threats had come from Hoshido, or some other unnamed, faceless enemy on the outside. She had never given thought before to the possibility that all the time, the real danger was within Nohr.

More terrible still was the thought that the throne might not be the safeguard she had imagined it to be, even at the King’s side. A crown would not protect her mother’s head from peril; when she became Queen, the dangers would only worsen. The realization was exhausting. She did not know how her father, or her mother, or Xander, or anyone else fated to carry the weight of the entire country could bear it.

  
  


One night the torturous stretch of darkness until dawn grew too long, and too crowded with imagined horrors, to endure. Camilla crept from her bed and, arming herself with her practice axe, she stationed herself outside her mother’s chamber door. That way she could at least be sure that anyone who came in with malicious purpose would have to go through her first. She thought of the secret entrance through the wall portrait, and wished she hadn’t. Doubtfully she tried to reassure herself that it was well-concealed and well-guarded, on the other end. 

Hours wore on, divided by the chiming of the parlor clock. Camilla ached with waiting. She wished Marzia were with her. The wyvern would have made an excellent watchdog, and good company besides. But Marzia was far away in the eyrie; she had to keep her steadfast watch alone.

Eventually, despite her vigilant battle to stay awake, she slid down into a defeated sleep in the doorway, where she was trodden upon by her mother the next morning. The axe, propped up against the door, fell inward with a resonant clang that startled both of them into wakefulness.

“Camilla! What in the world–?”

Camilla sat up, fumbling for clarity. She was cold and sore from the night spent on the flagstone floor, but for several bewildered seconds she could not remember why.

Lavinia knelt beside her with a shushing of skirts. “Whatever are you doing here, darling? Aren’t you well?”

She nodded. “I . . . I was . . . I had to stop the assassins!”

Her mother made a soothing, indulgent noise. “There, there. Don’t fret. There are no assassins here.”

“But there could be.”

Lavinia sighed. “Things have been a bit fraught recently, it’s true, but you needn’t fear. You’re quite safe; Mother won’t let you come to any harm.”

Camilla rubbed her eyes with a drowsy fist. “_No_,” she insisted, unable to keep a petulant whine from her voice, for she was very tired. “I’m worried about _you_.”

Lavinia’s hand smoothed her tumbled hair. “Is that what’s been troubling you so? My sweet, silly girl. It isn’t your responsibility to worry over me!”

“But I do worry, just the same.”

“Poor thing. You do have such a tender little heart. Come, now.” Rising, she took Camilla by the hand and led her back to bed like a sleepy child wakened by a nightmare. “Try to get some rest,” she said, pulling the covers up to her chin, “And don’t worry yourself over me, dear. I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time.”

Camilla awoke late, and for a little while her fears receded enough that she was able to face the day. Mercifully, they decided to stay in, and she spent a cozy afternoon curled up on the parlor sofa opposite her mother, working on an embroidery sampler and listening to Agnes read aloud from a novel. Rain drummed rhythmically against the windowpanes, and for one afternoon it seemed that everything was all right. But the clock hands moved inexorably around, and bedtime came dragging with it the usual weight of dread. Once again she was compelled to leave her bed and take up her vigil at her mother’s door.

This time, however, Lavinia anticipated her, and opened the door to find her on the threshold with her axe to hand.

“Camilla,” she said firmly, “This cannot continue. Go back to bed.”

Camilla clutched the axehaft to herself like she would a doll, for reassurance. “No! I can’t! I won’t sleep!”

“You will, and you must. Now give me that thing, before you hurt yourself, and go back to bed at once.” Reaching out, she wrested the axe from her hands with such ease that Camilla began to cry, in the bitterness of defeat. She couldn’t help it. She was so tired, and so afraid, and so tired of being tired and afraid. If she was not even strong enough to defend herself against her mother, how could she defend her mother against the thousand unknown threats that imperiled her?

Lavinia set the axe aside and drew her daughter against her with a sigh. “Shh, shh. Don’t carry on so. You’ll make yourself ill, working yourself into such a state.” Camilla held her breath in an effort to suppress her tears. “Are you really so afraid, sweeting?” She nodded, miserably. “Well . . . I suppose there is wisdom in that. The world is full of dangers. But I promise, none of them are here, tonight.”

Camilla released the breath she had been holding, and hiccupped. “Could . . . Could I sleep in your room, just for tonight? Please?”

Lavinia patted her back as though she were a baby in need of pacifying. “Would that make you feel better?” She nodded. “All right. But just for tonight, and then you must stop all this nonsense.”

In her mother’s room, there was a fire burning and Agnes and had already turned down the covers on the bed in readiness for its occupant. Camilla nestled herself into it and lay on her side, feeling a little of her anxiety disperse into the feather mattress around her. Through the open dressing-room door, she could see her mother beginning the involved process of undressing for the night, and the comfortable mundanity of the routine was soothing to watch.

One by one she removed her rings, her gold bracelets, her garnet earrings, her pearl necklace, and placed them in the trinket box on her dressing-table. An embossed gold headband followed, along with her hairpins, one after the other, until her hair unwound into a long, heavy coil upon her shoulder. 

Agnes came to her, and began unfastening the back lacing of her gown with practiced familiarity. One white shoulder emerged, and then the other, and then the gown slid away with a sighing of silk. With swift, dexterous fingers Lavinia unclasped the line of hook fastenings down the front of her stays, freeing her figure from confinement, then reached under the hem of her chemise to untie her garters, one at a time, and peeled off her stockings. Finally, taking the filmy chemise by its eyelet lace edge she straightened and pulled it up and over her head with a gesture of such smoothness that Camilla wondered if she herself would ever be able to replicate it. She admired and envied the way she could move her arms with so much elegance through such an ordinary task. The movement left the graceful curve of back bare for just a second before she put out her arms to receive the nightgown that Agnes brought to her. The fine linen settled over her in a floaty swoop and came to rest in a flounced hemline just above her toes. She tightened the satin ribbon at the yoke and tied it off into a neat bow upon her breast.

When she returned, it was with the glow of a recent washing upon her face and neck. Without her makeup – the wine-colored stain to her lips, the fine line of kohl above her eyelashes, the subtle pigments on her eyelids – her beauty was softer, almost gentle-seeming. Camilla’s heart still fluttered a little from her nearness as she came to the bed and slid herself beneath the covers next to her. Sitting up against the pillows, Lavinia took her comb with the mother-of-pearl handle and began working it methodically through her hair.

“Can I do it?” Camilla asked shyly.

“If you like.” She handed her the comb. Reverently Camilla took it and, moving just a little closer to her, drew it through the jewel-colored cascade of her hair. Her mother’s hair was a lustrous violet hue, a few shades richer than her own, and fell in waves rather than ringlets, apart from a few shorter curls framing her face. Ordinarily she kept it bound up into braids or twists at the back of her head, but unpinned it was long enough to spill all the way down her back and into Camilla’s lap, cool and fragrant and soft as satin.

“Mother?” she asked hesitantly, “How far away is Notre Sagesse?”

Lavinia frowned slightly. “It’s halfway across the sea to Hoshido, I believe. Quite a ways.”

“How long would it take to travel there?”

“Oh, several weeks, I would imagine. Why? Planning a vacation, are you?”

Camilla tightened her fingers in the volumes of her mother’s hair. Several weeks of travel time did not account for the months of the King’s absence. “Mother . . .” She hated to wound her with the question, but she longed for the comfort of an answer. “When is Father coming home? He hasn’t forgotten about us, has he?”

“No! Of course not. I’m sure he misses us very much. Things have just been . . . difficult, since the Queen died. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”

The words were hollow platitudes, but they were enough. Camilla gathered all of the neatly-combed hair into her hands and plaited it into one long braid, which she finished off with a ribbon she was handed for the purpose. Lavinia blew out the flame of the lamp on the nightstand and settled down into the pillows next to her, drawing the blankets up over them both. Agnes, who had gathered up the discarded clothing and banked down the fire for the night, drew the bedcurtains closed and departed with a curtsy.

In the soft, muffled near-darkness, Lavinia reached over and affectionately smoothed a lock of Camilla’s hair behind her ear, then tucked her hands beneath the pillow. She smiled benignly at her daughter, and closed her eyes.

“Good night, dear. Try to get some sleep.”

And for once, she did.

*

At last, in late fall, the long-awaited day arrived. Father came home.

From the battlements Camilla watched the procession approaching down the wide avenue towards the castle, delighting in the feeling of the sharp autumn wind in her hair and the shouts of joy and excitement from the crowds of Nohrians that lined the city streets. It seemed everyone had turned up to welcome home the King.

She wanted to run at once to greet him in the courtyard when he arrived, but her mother insisted they present themselves according to the customs of formality, to make the best impression possible – but still, to be the first to do it, before the other mothers and children. Hastily she combed Camilla’s wind-blown hair and hurried her into one of her new dresses. Camilla was glad of their fine new clothes. She couldn’t wait to see how pleased her father would be when he saw them, and how beautiful he would find her mother!

There seemed to be a great flurrying of activity throughout the castle as they made their way to the throne room, but Camilla could not tell whether it was simply the hubbub of everything being made ready for the King, or for some other reason. The trappings of mourning were gone, replaced by ropes of bunting and fluttering pennants in festival colors. Lamps and candles were lit, filling the halls with light. Her heart lifted to see them, for the first time in what felt like an age.

Camilla walked in first as they entered the throne room, with Lavinia following behind, because she was the princess. It was strange to be reminded, in ceremonial social situations like this, that she outranked her mother, but even so she could feel the implicit pressure from her as always to present her finest self: the prettiest child, the most decorous child, the _best _child. Even before the King, she was still something belonging to Lavinia, to be presented to him for his approval.

The atmosphere of the throne room had changed considerably since she had seen it last, a sepulcher housing the body of the Queen and her grieving son and husband. Now it was full of light sparkling from chandeliers, and the airy laughter of courtiers, and the bright-hued clothing of the nobility, and the music of minstrels. Camilla looked around in wonder. Could all of this really be for the King’s homecoming?

“Princess Camilla of Nohr, and her mother, the lady Lavinia,” announced a crier at the door when they entered, and everyone turned to look. It had been some time since Camilla had seen the royal court conducted with such ceremony. She imagined how it would be when her mother was Queen, and sitting enthroned at King Garon’s side in this very hall. How elegant and regal she would be, and how happy! Despite her fears, the thought made her lift her chin with the appropriate dignity as she made her way down the royal carpet, and walk with a determined stride that set her curls bouncing behind her. She saw Xander in the crowd, in conversation with some of the nobles near the throne, and part of her wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him in joy, but she knew how to behave when all eyes were upon her. She must present herself to the King first. 

She approached the foot of the throne and offered a confident curtsy, hearing the rustle of her mother’s skirts behind her as she did the same. Her father greeted her with a warm smile. He looked happy, strong and well, which made Camilla feel the same.

“Welcome home, Father.”

“Camilla! It warms my heart to see you again, my child.” To her surprise, he rose from his throne and descended to meet her, putting a fatherly arm about her shoulders and drawing her against him in an embrace. Camilla returned the hug, which caused a couple of nearby courtiers to emit an _Awww _of approval at the display of familial affection. She turned her head to look up at her mother, waiting for him to greet her as well, to admire her new gown, perhaps even to take her on his arm, but he did not pay her any attention at all. Instead, with his arm still behind his daughter’s shoulders, he gave a fond tap to one of her horns and guided her to the side of the carpet where the nobles were gathered. “Come, little one. There is someone you must meet.” 

Camilla cast a glance back over her shoulder at her mother in confusion. Lavinia was still standing transfixed on the carpet before the dais, unable to move until the King addressed or dismissed her. She kept her head high, maintaining an air of poise and nonchalance, but her lips were set in a thin, tight smile, and Camilla could see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. King Garon had not acknowledged her, as though he had not even noticed she was there.

The King instead extended his hand to the crowd and a woman who had been talking to Xander came forth to take it, smiling. Camilla had never seen her, or anyone like her, before in her life. Her hair was the blue of a clear, still lake reflecting a morning sky over a country that was not Nohr. Her eyes were topazes. She wore a white and gold gown of a strange, flowing style, and upon her head she bore a gold diadem. As she approached, Camilla’s eye was caught by a pendant hanging from her neck that seemed to be a stylized representation of an amphora, set with a brilliant blue jewel in the shape of a water droplet that shimmered with its own inner light as she moved.

The King took her hand in both of his, beaming at her with a smile of undisguised fondness such as Camilla had only seen him shine upon her mother. Immediately a prickle of defensive jealousy on her behalf crept up her spine, which she knew to be silly, for it was certainly not the first time Lavinia had had to share his affections with another woman. But to present a new mistress at court, in front of everyone, by introducing her first to the daughter of the noblewoman he was slighting, be she a princess or not, seemed a grievous lapse of courtly decency.

“Arete, my love, this is my eldest daughter, the Princess Camilla. Camilla, this is Queen Arete. She is my betrothed, and soon to be Queen of Nohr.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

Lavinia reacted to the news by succumbing to a fit of heavy melancholia and not leaving her bed for days. She lost all interest in her social engagements, her laboratory, her appearance, and her daughter. Camilla tried to cheer her with bouquets of flowers hand-picked from the gardens, and watercolor sketches, and her newly-finished embroidery sampler, but everything she offered seemed inadequate. 

Longing for the closeness she had shared with her mother during the last few weeks, Camilla picked up the mother-of-pearl-handled comb from the dressing-table and climbed up onto the tall bed, as softly as she could. Her mother was lying with her back to her, breathing shallowly, but she did not seem to be asleep. The neck of her nightgown had slipped so that one shoulder was bare, and her hair lay across the pillows in a woefully neglected snarl. There was an uncharacteristically pungent scent in her nearness, where Camilla had been so used to the fragrance of perfume, and scented soap.

“Mother?” she asked timidly. There was no response. Taking up a handful of her scattered hair, she began to work the teeth of the comb gently through the tangles. “Are you unwell, Mother? Shall I send for Cressida?” Still, silence. “I wish you’d say something to me,” Camilla said, very quietly.

Her heart rose as Lavinia drew in a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh.

“Leave me be, Camilla,” she said, in a voice hoarse with disuse, so that the loveliness was all but gone from it, “Must you always be such a pest?”

It would have hurt less had she slapped her. 

“Oh. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” Dropping the comb, she slid from the bed back down to the floor and fled the room before her mother could hear her start to cry.

After a few days of this, Camilla grew so lonely that she overcame her fear of ever-present assassins and slipped out on her own. Agnes, preoccupied with attending to her inert mistress, did not seem to notice her absence. She wandered the Rose Wing without direction for a while before the sound of voices drew her to the mothers’ communal lounge. She found Lady Beatrix, Lady Klara, and Lady Isolde engaged in a fervent conversation over tea.

Camilla leaned around the doorframe and looked inside uncertainly, hoping to see baby Leo, although by that point she was willing to accept even Roxana’s company. To her disappointment none of her siblings were there, but before she could retreat without being noticed, Lady Beatrix spotted her and waved her inside.

“Camilla! Won’t you come in, dear?”

She couldn’t very well leave after that, so she came in and perched on the edge of a sofa next to Lady Isolde.

“And how is your dear mother taking the news?” There was no need to specify what news. “We’ve not heard from her since; we’re all ever so worried.”

Camilla twisted a fold of her skirt in her fingers. “I’m afraid Mother is ill. She doesn’t get out of bed.” The three women made a wordless, commiserative noise.

“And is it any wonder, after the way she was treated at court! Poor treasure,” said Lady Klara.

“Yes, we heard all about it. How perfectly horrid,” agreed Lady Isolde, “And how appalling that he should take a new wife so soon after the death of our lovely Queen Katerina. Not that it’s my place to question a decision made by the King, of course.” She lifted her teacup to her lips primly.

“I heard it was on account of her bewitching voice, can you believe it? I heard he fell madly and hopelessly in love with her when he heard her sing. She must be a witch, to have enchanted him so.”

“They say she’s the Queen of some exotic country,” mused Lady Isolde, “but no one seems to know where.”

Lady Beatrix poured Camilla a cup of tea, which she accepted without wondering what might be in it. The women’s collective indignation against an outside target made her feel safe, although she couldn’t help wondering how much of their defensive loyalty was to the dead Queen, and how much was to the empty throne the new Queen had stolen.

“I don’t care what the King says,” said Lady Beatrix emphatically, “I shan’t have anything to do with her, or her daughter. She’s no Queen of mine.” There was a concerted murmur of agreement.

“She has a daughter?” Camilla asked curiously. She did not remember seeing a child at court, but there had admittedly been quite a lot going on.

“Oh, yes, A very peculiar, silent child. At least,  _ I’ve _ never heard her speak a word.”

“She is to be my new stepsister, then?”

“Hmph! I suppose, if you must call her that.”

The conversation ambled back and forth on the topic of the recent courtly happenings, which seemed to have scandalized and dismayed all of the mothers. In a rare display of solidarity for each other, they all agreed to shun the new queen, and the little princess, too. The events of the past tumultuous months seemed already to have been forgotten.

After a time Camilla excused herself, and left with promises to “give our love to your mother, won’t you, dear?” At home, she dutifully delivered the message, along with the news she had heard, but Lavinia did not seem to care.

The dreary late November days passed, much the same. One particular afternoon found Camilla drifting around the castle like a lonely patch of fog, aimless and ignored. She missed Samantha. She missed Xander, who was dealing with his grief by training alone for hours on end in preparation for knighthood. She missed her father, who was wrapped up in his adoration for his new betrothed and his plans for the upcoming wedding festival, and who had brushed aside her concerns about Iago with an infuriatingly good-natured pat to her head. She missed her mother, and the brief, ephemeral time she had been precious to her. It was her eleventh birthday, and no one had paid her any notice.

She found herself in the gardens where she used to play with her sister, and train Marzia with her brother. Over a row of flowering white camellia hedges she glimpsed a shimmer of distinctive blue hair, and caught her breath. She could hear a woman’s voice, raised in song.

Curiously, she crept closer, hoping to get a better hint of the mysterious new queen, and the voice that had so bewitched her father. She sat down in a gap between the hedges to listen, positioning herself carefully out of sight.

Queen Arete was seated on a stone bench with her little daughter at her side. The child was younger than Camilla, about five or six. Her hair, which fell nearly to her waist, was the same aquatic blue as her mother’s. She was clad in a floaty white gown of that same exotic style that the Queen wore, and both of their feet were bare, despite the late autumn chill. The cold did not seem to trouble them.

They were singing together, the princess’s voice in piping counterpoint to the flutelike melody of her mother’s. Camilla wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees to listen. The Queen’s voice was indeed very beautiful, and she began to understand how her father could have fallen in love so quickly and so completely.

At the song’s end, Queen Arete leaned down and touched her forehead affectionately to her daughter’s, with a smile only meant to be shared between the two of them. The simple lovingness of the gesture dredged up a long-ago memory of being cradled, safe in the warmth of a blanket and her mother’s arms, with her cheek resting against her head and the velvet murmur of her voice wrapped all around her in a song. In that moment, her loneliness became unbearable.

She fled before the rustle of the bushes could betray her presence and intrude upon the tender moment between mother and child, and ran away to the fountain where the burble of water concealed any sounds of singing. She pressed her lips together in an effort to constrain her tears, although she was not even sure why she was trying to suppress them. No one at home would notice even if she came home all tearstained and ugly. The strain of not crying seemed to vibrate against the inside of her skull like a headache and collect in a resonating hum in her horns, and then all at once she felt the dragon vein beneath the fountain awakening in response to her tumble of emotions. The sky opened in a torrential downpour of rain.

She heard a laughing shriek of surprise from the Queen, and saw her and the princess, along with everyone else in the gardens, running for shelter from the cold autumn rain. She did not follow them. Completely alone, Camilla sat down on the stone lip of the fountain, and let it rain, and rain, and rain.

Arriving home, a small, selfish part of Camilla hoped that returning soaking wet and miserable might reward her with some attention, even if it was only a scolding. But there was nothing. Her only reward turned out to be the bad cold she unknowingly inflicted upon herself.

After a week spent alone in sore-throated, runny-nosed mopery, she was alerted by a knock upon her bedroom door. She raised her head from the book she had been idling drowsily over in surprise. Apart from the intermittent arrival of Agnes bringing lemon tea – and then, only when she sought her out beforehand to ask her for it – she had not had a visitor in quite some time. 

The door opened before she could force her voice into a response. Lavinia stood in the doorway. Perhaps she was a little paler than before, but she was dressed, with her long hair returned to a neatly coiled coiffure and her makeup done to perfection, radiating her usual air of elegance, dignity, and command.

“Camilla.”

“Mother!” cried Camilla, embarrassed by how froggy her voice sounded, “You’re better!” She wanted to run to her with a joyful hug, but her mother did not look as though she would be particularly receptive to it. She waited, half-hoping that she might ask after her cold (better, thank you) or if she needed anything (hot soup would be nice), but she did not.

“There is to be a festival, in honor of the King’s marriage to his new Queen,” she said slowly, with a curl of her lip as though the words tasted bitter. Camilla nodded. She had expected as much. “And then the wedding,” she continued. Her voice had a strange, detached quality, as though she were reciting words she had been thinking over for some time. “All of the royal children are to be part of the wedding party. You shall have to be fitted for a new dress.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She turned to leave, then half-turned back. “I shall be in my study,” she addended, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t disturb me.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Then she was gone again. Camilla laid her head down on her open book with a sigh.

The evening of the festival arrived. Camilla was mildly surprised that her mother wanted to attend, and therefore that she herself would be allowed to, but she supposed she felt it would have been unseemly if they did not.

Windmire was arrayed in strings of colored lights and streaming festival banners that leant a brightness to the fortresslike walled city that it did not usually possess. Colorfully painted merchant stalls lined the streets in concentric rings, repeating the pattern of the city’s circular walls. The shouts of their vendors rose all around in a clamoring chorus, advertising snacks, and prizes for games, and royal wedding souvenirs, mingling with the shrieking laughter of excited children, the music of minstrels, and the hubbub of conversation from festival-goers. The air was full of the smells of woodsmoke from the bonfires, and roasting partridge, hot chestnuts, fruit pastries, roasted ears of corn, frying potatoes, candied walnuts, spiced cider, and others, far too many to identify, mixing together in a delicious, dizzying muddle.

Camilla followed her mother through the labyrinth of vendors, stopping every few feet to find the source of some tantalizing new scent or admire a display of brightly-colored trinkets for sale, until Lavinia impatiently took her by the hand to force her to match her pace. 

“Little princess!” called out a vendor as she passed, “Would you like to try one of my apple pastries? Just out of the oven!” She beamed at them over the tray of half-moon-shaped apple pastries she had just set out to cool, with steam rising from the vents in the buttery crust through which the sweet, spiced apples gleamed golden in the lamplight. Camilla looked up at her mother hopefully.

“Thank you, but no,” Lavinia said on her behalf, and moved on. 

“Princess! Fancy some lovely toffees for you and your lovely mother?”

“No, thank you,” Lavinia said again.

“But why?” Camilla cried, a little petulantly, as her mother continued to tow her along.

“The last thing  _ you  _ need is to be stuffing yourself with sweets. You want to be able to fit into your dress for the royal wedding, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then come along.”

“Hot cocoa for you, Princess?” Lavinia stopped as her daughter was addressed a third time. When she did not refuse, Camilla’s hopes lifted for a moment, but then she caught the meaningful glint in her eyes despite the pleasant, painted smile she had put on for the vendor. She was waiting for Camilla to reject the offer herself.

“No, thank you,” she said politely, “But it’s very kind of you to offer.”

Lavinia squeezed her hand in tacit approval, and they continued on.

The mothers converged in the center ring with their children in tow, all of them dressed competitively nicely, despite the ever-present danger of good clothes coming into contact with festival food. Laurent, in fact, already bore a cinnamony smudge leaked from an apple pastry on his ruffled collar, and Avery’s cheeks were dusted with powdered sugar. Edgar, the colored lights reflecting upon his spectacles, had one hand full of his mother’s skirts and the other full of an iced cider doughnut. Roxana had a bag of candied dried fruits, and baby Leo was gnawing his few teeth contentedly on an oversized lollipop his mother was holding for him. Even Lady Celandine’s unborn baby, whose presence had made itself known during the months of the King’s absence, was enjoying a cloud of pink spun-sugar candy by proxy. It wasn’t fair.

A murmur rippled through the gathered throng of festival-goers, and Camilla turned along with several others to divine its source. The subject of everyone’s interest was quickly apparent as Queen Arete appeared amid the crowd, which parted before her like a wave breaking upon the shore. Not all of them, Camilla noticed, seemed pleased to see her. Many of the assembled Nohrians collected into little groups to whisper. Some, doubtless devotees of the late Queen Katerina, even turned their backs to her, despite the shocking impropriety of the slight. The Queen took it all in with grace, and turned her attention to her little daughter at her side, as though nothing unusual was happening.

Catching sight of the flock of mothers, she approached them, relief at finding someone familiar amid the hostile crowd apparent on her face. 

“Good evening, ladies. How are you enjoying the festival?”

The ladies closed ranks around Lavinia, who as the one of them who had stood the closest chance of gaining the throne, now seemed to serve as a figurehead for the tragedy of its loss. Lady Beatrix snapped open a fan and began fanning herself with it indolently, even though it was a little chilly. Lady Celandine took pointed interest in her candy rather than looking at the Queen. Lady Isolde turned her attention to her baby.

“Well enough, your Majesty,” replied Lavinia, in a tone that seemed to suggest that she was the one honoring Queen Arete with her notice, rather than the other way around. She said nothing more, leaving the Queen to fumble for a conversation opening.

“Azura is enjoying it very much, aren’t you, dear one?” The little girl at her side nodded solemnly. It was not clear whether she was enjoying it very much at all. “We’ve never been to a Nohrian festival before. I did so hope for the opportunity to become familiar with Nohrian customs, and the Nohrian people.”

“Well, we shan’t detain your Majesty from doing so any longer, then.” Lavinia made a curtsy that seemed somehow more mocking than deferential, and the other mothers followed suit. Then they all moved away in a group, without waiting to be dismissed. Camilla glanced back at the Queen and her daughter. They looked very lonely, standing out conspicuously amid the crowd of people and things completely foreign to them. In spite of herself, she felt sorry for them. 

“Can I go play now?” demanded Roxana of her mother.

Laurent tugged at the hand restraining him. “Can I go too, Mommy?”

Camilla looked up hopefully at her mother. The other mothers did, too, waiting for her to make the decision on everyone’s behalf.

“If you wish. But stay together, all of you.”

Roxana groaned at the prospect of tagalong little brothers, but led the way towards the row of brightly-lit carnival games. Camilla looked around. The Queen and her daughter were still standing nearby, and Azura was watching her with shy curiosity. She waved, offering a smile across the distance. The little girl waved back. Encouraged, Camilla started in their direction. Azura was to be their sister, after all; she had every right to be invited to play with them, too.

A firm hand seized her by the arm and yanked her abruptly back. “Camilla!” her mother’s voice hissed in her ear, “I’ll not have you going near that foreign hussy, or her daughter, either.”

“But why?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. Just do as I ask, for once.”

“I  _ always  _ do as you ask! Not that it ever matters! You’re never happy, no matter what I do!” With the strength of defiant anger, she shook off her mother’s hand and, finding herself unexpectedly free, took off at a run. Multi-hued lights and festival clamor whirled by her in a blur of sound and color. She weaved her way through the crowds with no particular direction or destination in mind, dodging a woman bending to examine a display of beaded bracelets, a man lifting a toddler to his shoulders, two girls walking with linked arms and caramel apples. Abstractly she wondered if anyone recognized her, the princess, behaving in such a reckless and uncouth manner, but she did not really care.

She finally stopped her headlong dash when there was nowhere left to run. She had come up against the city wall, where the backs of merchant’s stalls formed a makeshift alleyway. Breathing hard, she looked around. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, and the realization that she had lost her squeezed her heart with both exhilaration and panic.

Camilla sat down with her back to the wall and drew her knees to her chest. Away across the square, she could see a juggler performing a routine with lighted torches, keeping three, then four, then five in the air at once. From the distance they were only a flowing blur of light. Away from the bonfires and the press of the crowds, the night air was chilly, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She wondered with dread how long it would take her mother to find her, and what would happen when she did.

Nearby she could overhear two of the vendors in conversation, apparently unaware of the child hiding nearby. They seemed to be discussing plans for the upcoming wedding celebration, which made her lean her forehead gloomily against her knees.

“. . . should see the ones I’m preparing for the royal wedding! I haven’t had such a big order since Queen Katerina’s coronation, rest her soul. Eight hundred cakelets, with marzipan rosebuds!  _ And _ I’ve just received an order for a special Queen’s cake, shaped like a waterlily with real gold leaf detailing.”

“Goodness me, I don’t know how you’ll ever find the time!”

Camilla scowled to herself. She was beginning to hate Queen Arete. If only her father had never met her, then everything – the festival, the wedding, her fancy new dress, the eight hundred cakelets with marzipan rosebuds – would have been in honor of her mother. And her mother would have been so, so happy, with the love of the King and the people of Nohr all for her, and never had to take her anger out on Camilla.

Sighing, she lifted her head a little and pillowed her cheek on her folded arms. Not far away, she caught a glimpse of a small, solemn face watching her from around the edge of a merchant’s stall. As she sat up straighter to get a better look, the child’s face whipped out of sight, trailing a wave of long aqua-blue hair. Puzzled, Camilla wondered if Princess Azura had really been there, or if she had only imagined her.

Hours seemed to go by. Camilla began to contemplate whether anyone was actually looking for her, and if she should start looking for her mother. She wasn’t sure where to start, but dolefully she admitted to herself that the longer it took for her to find her, the more trouble she could expect to be in. At any rate, she was cold, and hungry, and she wanted to go home.

A little stiffly, she got to her feet. When she came around the wall of merchant stalls she found the crowds thinning, the vendors’ displays nearly empty of their wares, the fires low, the minstrels packing up their instruments. She made her way through the winding lanes of booths and tables, scanning the sparse groups of festival patrons until she spotted a familiar figure, standing alone in a watchful attitude, straight-backed, head regally high as her amethyst-sharp gaze swept over the crowds. Slowly, resignedly, Camilla went to her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The festival scene is based on Camilla and Azura's support conversations in the Nohrian Festival of Bonds DLC; you can read a translation of it here: https://fe14festivalofbondstranslations.tumblr.com/post/149300706493/nohrian-festival-azura-and-camilla-conversation


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Alone in her bedchamber, Camilla was playing the cello with melancholy determination. A particular passage was giving her trouble; she could read the notes easily enough, and sound them out one by one, but whenever she reached that part of the piece as she played it, her bow would skip on the strings with a discordant screech, and she would have to start over. She had not left her room all morning, not even for breakfast, for she feared to fall under the gaze of her mother. 

Sleepily, she frowned at the sheet music on the stand before her. Her eyes were still bleary and sore from having cried herself to sleep the previous night, and her head ached. She would have liked to sleep in, but an internal reprimand for her idleness had made it impossible for her to enjoy the comfort of her own bed. Feeling she ought to be doing something productive that might please her mother, she had tuned her cello and sat down to practice an étude in earnest. After the incident of the festival, she feared to do anything that might make her mother love her less, and Lavinia was always interested in things that might contribute to her improvement as a princess.

When Camilla’s mother was angry with her, she rarely raised her voice. She simply stared down at her with the gem-hard brightness of contempt in her eyes until Camilla was ready to apologize for anything. But the apology was never accepted. Instead she would berate her for being such a thoughtless, ungrateful child, too wrapped up in her own selfish desires to notice everything her suffering mother did for her, and then, with tears in her eyes, she would send her from her sight, as though she could not even bear to look at her any longer.

Then invariably Camilla would go to bed exhausted from crying, only to spend a miserable night floundering through fits of broken sleep, and bad dreams, and guilt. In the morning, however, Lavinia would act as though she had already forgotten all about the incident, whatever it was, except that she would wave away any attempts to talk about it, thereby preventing her daughter from offering an apology or receiving forgiveness. She would continue on as though nothing had happened, but Camilla, denied absolution, would spend the next several days feeling like something her mother might scrape off the bottom of her shoe, and being very, very careful not to displease her again. So it always went.

This was why she had risen early and, despite her heavy head and empty tummy, consigned herself to cello practice. She forced herself to relax the tense grip she had on her bow, corrected her finger positioning on the strings, straightened her back, and began again. If she could only master the piece, then perhaps her mother would hear it and consider that she wasn’t a total failure as a daughter. That she was ungrateful, ungraceful, unmannerly, and unkind, but at least she had some presentable skills. She stopped staring at the sheet music, letting her fingers lead her from one note to the next from memory, held her breath, and – at last! – managed to play the étude from beginning to end without error.

There was a knock upon the door. Camilla looked up. Had her mother been listening? Perhaps she would break her silence to praise her performance. It was too much to hope for an apology, but a kind word from her would be as good as forgiveness. She bit her lip, waiting.

“Camilla,” Lavinia’s voice, honed to an irritable edge, demanded from the other side of the door, “What in the world are you thinking of, making that racket at this hour?”

*

The day of the royal wedding came and went, and despite a mixed reception from the general public, some grousing among the King’s mistresses, and a few disparaging comments from Lavinia over the fit of Camilla’s dress, the new Queen of Nohr was crowned without trouble. There was a minor incident in which a waterlily-shaped cake intended for the Queen was found to have been poisoned, but the treachery was discovered long before the cake reached the royal table, and, while an unfortunate baker was summarily executed for treason, the Queen remained unharmed. Peculiarly, no one was later able to divine who had placed the order for the cake, but in all the excitement and palaver of the occasion, the incident soon faded to a bit of interesting court gossip, and then was forgotten.

As the snows of winter melted, a change swept through Castle Krakenburg like a spring breeze from another world. During the time of Queen Arete, the palace was full of music. She hired harpers, lute players, flutists, and a string quartet to perform at royal functions. She hosted galas, festivals, masked balls, and concerts for all to attend. She even rounded up all of the royal children, from Xander to two-year-old Leo, and formed a choir for which she personally tutored them in singing. The halls of the once-austere castle rang now with the lilting, otherworldly music of her voice.

In spite of herself, Camilla found herself warming to the new Queen. She enjoyed the balls and galas, and even the singing lessons, and most of all she enjoyed the change in the King. The arriving spring had melted the sorrow from his demeanor like the snow; he smiled again, and when he did his eyes were soft with love and pride for his Queen, his children, and his country.

Camilla wanted to offer her smiles to Queen Arete too, but it seemed disloyal to her mother to do so. She tried to demonstrate her appreciation by singing with enthusiasm during music lessons, until some of her younger siblings teased her about it. Then she found herself enjoying them less. When Roxana performed exaggerated, incisively observant impressions of the Queen’s mannerisms – the floaty, ethereal way in which she carried herself, the lofty tilt of her chin when she spoke – for the amusement of Avery and Laurent, Camilla joined in the mean-spirited laughter, although she felt bad about it later.

More than that she felt bad for Princess Azura, who seemed to keep to herself most of the time. The Queen was often busy with arrangements for some event or another, or holding court at the King’s side, leaving her daughter on her own. Surely she must have had a nanny, but from time to time Camilla would catch a glimpse of a solitary little figure in white making her way through the ever-blooming paths of the gardens, or solemnly cradling a doll in the corner of the playroom behind an armchair that all but hid her from view, or sitting underneath the billiard table in an otherwise-unoccupied games room with her arms clasped pensively about her knees. She dearly wished to be friendly to her new stepsister, to get to know her and help her to feel welcome in the castle, but her mother’s warnings after the last time she had disobeyed kept her at a careful distance. The sting of Lavinia’s last scolding was still too painful to risk another one.

But one afternoon when Camilla was returning from the sky with Marzia, she caught sight of a trio of other children dashing along the stonework bridges and balconies that connected the castle’s towers. At first she was surprised, for she caught the flash of familiar sky-blue hair even from afar, and it seemed unusual for her to have found playmates in the palace. As she drew closer, however, the situation became clear. Little Azura was fleeing two bigger boys, whose shouts and jeers pursued her like the baying of hunting dogs. She reached the edge of a balcony and could run no further, and Camilla’s breath caught as she saw the boys catch up with her. Flicking the wyvern’s reins, she urged her forward, but she was still too far away to intervene. There was a scuffle, and then something small and white sailed over the parapet, followed by a cry of hopeless dismay. It fell, tumbling, down into the depths of the cavernous quarry into which Castle Krakenburg had been built. 

Throwing both caution and her mother’s injunctions to the winds, Camilla dove after it. Marzia’s wings folded tightly against her sides as they plunged, following the object whose whiteness made it glow like a falling star amidst the gloom. Transferring the reins to one hand, she reached out and snatched it from the air before it was lost to the darkness below.

It was a doll – a soft, pretty thing dressed in a dainty white gown and veil clearly meant to emulate the Queen. Her exotic manner of dress had become fashionable in Windmire since the wedding, even among the doll population, and Camilla had spotted blue hair and white silks in more than one toy shop window since. She recognized this one, for Azura had been the lucky child most recently chosen to accompany Father into the city, and she had returned from the outing carrying it close in her arms. Holding it carefully against herself, she guided her wyvern upwards, climbing the air past the tiers of stone balconies they had passed in their descent.

Her heart jumped in her chest when she saw the small, slight figure teetering above her on the edge of the parapet, with her arms outstretched and her white skirts fluttering about her like the wings of a frightened dove about to take flight. Urgently Camilla kicked Marzia in the sides with her heels, so that the wyvern lunged upwards with a powerful stroke of her wings against the air. With a little yelp, Princess Azura tipped back from the edge of the wall, and out of sight.

Camilla was not especially surprised to find Avery and Laurent at the heart of the trouble. The sneers of triumph smugly twisting the faces of the two eight-year-old boys disappeared as Marzia’s expansive wings came into view over the parapet, followed by her head with its profusely toothy smile. Azura was scrambling to her feet, and all three children leaped back as the wyvern landed on the balcony with a _ whoosh _of air from beneath her folding wings.

“Camilla!” exclaimed Avery as she slid down from the saddle, “It’s you!”

“Were you expecting someone else? What’s going on here?”

He put his hands in his pockets. “ . . . No, but . . . Hey! you saved Azura’s doll! We were so worried, you know, when she _ dropped _ it.”

Camilla folded her arms and stared levelly at the two boys, in the same way she had often seen her mother do. Avery gave a subtle nudge to Laurent, who hastily jumped in.

“Yeah! She totally dropped it! Honest! We tried to save it, but it went right over the edge!”

“And then she was gonna go after it!” continued Avery, “Bit daft if you ask me. Good thing you were there to stop her, Camilla.”

“I see.” She looked over at Azura, who was staring down at the floor so that her long hair hid her face like a curtain, contributing nothing to the brothers’ account of events. To her alarm, she saw that one of her white stockings was rapidly reddening at the knee, and she had oozing scrapes on her hands. “Then why is she bleeding?” Camilla demanded.

“She fell down,” Avery replied quickly, “You know how little kids are. She was running, right? And she tripped and dropped her doll.” He made a gesture to indicate its trajectory.

“Right over the edge,” repeated Laurent.

“Is that _ really _ what happened?” Camilla asked Azura.

“Yeah, tell her, Azura.”

She waited for her to refute the boys’ tale, so she would have a reason to report their bad behavior to their father. That ought to curtail their rowdiness, for a little while at least. But Azura would not meet her gaze. Instead she sniffled, and nodded slowly. Camilla frowned.

“Well, why don’t you two find something else to do?” she said to the two boys, “This isn’t a safe place to be playing.”

Laurent and Avery took off at a run, laughing in a way that made her want to storm after them and make them come back to apologize, but instead she went to Azura.

“Those boys are so horrible sometimes. Here, let me see. Are you badly hurt?” Azura curled her wounded hands against herself, trembling with fear and with tears she was making a visible effort to restrain. “It’s all right,” Camilla soothed, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The little girl shied away at her approach. Camilla stopped, and looked back at the wyvern perched on the parapet.

“You’re not afraid of Marzia, are you?” Hearing her name, the wyvern butted her in the side with a snort, and she put her arm about the big, scaly head. “She looks fierce, but she’s really very gentle. Would you like to pet her?”

Azura shook her head, sending her hair cascading about her face in waves.

“All right.” Camilla offered her hand. “Come, let me take you home.”

But Azura only shook her head again, then turned about and fled. Camilla’s shoulders fell. She had so wished to be a figure of kindness and comfort to her new sister, but instead she had been one of fear. Too late, she realized that she was still holding the doll she had rescued, and called out after her, but Azura was already gone. With a sinking heart, Camilla wondered if the little girl believed she had meant to keep it for herself.

After returning Marzia to the eyrie, she set out for the royal wing of the palace. She knew her mother would not be pleased if she caught her on such an errand, but she couldn’t bear the thought of seeming like a monster in Azura’s eyes. It was early evening, and although she only half-hoped to be received when she knocked on the door to the Queen’s chambers, a maid admitted her and showed her into the drawing room. Camilla perched herself anxiously on the edge of a white divan, following the pattern of gold-threaded feathers along the upholstery with her fingertips.

Presently, Queen Arete herself arrived, dressed for the evening in a flowing pale blue gown with a train that swept the floor like silkenly flowing water. “Your Majesty,” Camilla greeted her with a curtsy. When she straightened up, she expected the Queen to be smiling, as she often did upon the royal children when she taught them to sing, but the golden eyes were hard. Camilla realized she was looking at the doll in her hands, and held it out.

“Azura lost this,” she explained, “I wanted to make sure she got it back.”

“She ‘lost’ it?” the Queen inquired meaningfully, taking it from her.

Camilla could not withhold her suspicions any longer. “It was those two dreadful boys, Avery and Laurent! I’m _ sure _ they took it from her and threw it over the balcony, only I was too far away to see.”

“I suppose these are the same two boys that pushed her down so that she skinned her hands and knees?”

“Is she all right?” Camilla asked anxiously, “I tried to get a better look at her hands, but she ran from me. I’m afraid my wyvern might have spooked her.”

Queen Arete’s eyes softened slightly. “She will be all right. But this isn’t the first time she has come home with unexplained scrapes and bruises, and rarely will she tell me the story of how she got them. I fear the real damage being done to her is something worse than can be fixed with a few bandages.”

“I’m so sorry,” Camilla said helplessly, “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

“Camilla,” said the Queen, and her dulcet voice glided over her name like the touch of a gentle hand, “You seem like a kind and thoughtful young lady. I’m afraid I can’t always be around to protect Azura, especially from the malice of other children. Too often, what appears to adults to be simple childish caprice turns out to be cruelty in disguise. Could I ask you to look out for my daughter when you children are together? It would give me peace to know that she has someone else in the castle she can turn to.”

Camilla twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers. Her heart fluttered with delight as she pictured herself with her new sister at her side, the trusting little hand in hers, the winsome smiles of someone who looked up to her, and the fun they would have together as she introduced Azura to her dolls, and the horses in the stables, and the secret passages throughout the castle, and all of her favorite places. 

But over her reverie loomed the specter of her mother’s disapproving gaze. She let her breath, which she hadn’t realized she had been holding, out in a shaky sigh. “I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

The Queen nodded, briefly. “I understand. It’s a lot to ask of you. Thank you, for the return of the doll.”

She dismissed her then, and Camilla went away disappointed in herself, for disappointing her.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Not even a week after the incident on the balcony there descended upon the Rose Wing a great storm of activity, for all of King Garon’s mistresses and children were to be departing on holiday – even Lady Celandine and her newborn baby. Carriages were ordered; trunks were filled with clothes, and books, and toys; farewells were said. The younger children buzzed with excitement, for it had been some time since they had visited Thornwood Manor, which was kept as a kind of vacation home for the royal mistresses and children, and the littlest ones had never been. Camilla, who was used to having decisions made for her with very little power over the course her life took, accepted the change in events, but she couldn’t help wondering if their sudden departure had anything to do with Queen Arete. Had Father heard about what had happened to Azura? Were they really _ going _ on holiday, or were they being _ sent_?

Most of all, she was sorry to be leaving Xander. It seemed a terrible thing to leave him alone in the castle, still so soon after the death of his mother and their father’s remarriage. But her mother had refused her request to stay behind with him, and so she found herself in a carriage rocking its way along the serpentine road through the Woods of the Forlorn, with Lavinia beside her and Lady Beatrix and Roxana on the seat opposite. All of them were bundled in cloaks and furs, for it was still only early spring, and the pervasive darkness of the woods made them chilly.

Leaning her head against the carriage wall, Camilla looked out the window, but there was not much to see apart from the swinging lights on the other carriages in the caravan. The interlocking canopy of trees overhead was so dense that almost no light at all filtered through, even in the daytime, and now that it was evening only the faint suggestions of tree trunks were visible in the gloom. She sighed and drew her feet up onto the seat to lay her head upon her knees, wondering how much fun the trip would really be without Xander, or Marzia, or Samantha. The company of prissy, spoiled Roxana was a poor substitute.

“Are you tired, sweeting?” asked Lavinia. She smoothed her skirts invitingly. “Come, rest your head in Mother’s lap.” Camilla was not particularly tired, and she had a feeling that the gesture of maternal fondness was more for the benefit of her mother’s audience than for her daughter, but she did as she was bidden. Lavinia tucked a fold of her lap robe about her solicitously. In truth, it made Camilla a little uncomfortable to be the focus of her tender attentions after going so long without them, especially with Roxana sneering at her from the other side of the carriage.

Not to be outdone, Lady Beatrix slipped an arm around her daughter and drew her a little closer, impelling her head down to rest against her shoulder. Roxana made a disgusted noise and kicked her heels restlessly against the carriage seat. “Are we almost there?”

“Soon,” replied her mother, not for the first time.

“Why did we have to come out to this stupid forest, anyway?”

“Why, precious, don’t you want to go on holiday? It will be such fun! You’ll be able to play with your siblings in the woods and on the manor grounds. And I hear the manor is supposed to be haunted. Won’t that be delightfully spooky? Maybe you’ll see a ghost!”

“Huh,” scoffed Roxana without enthusiasm. Slouching in her seat, she exchanged glances with Camilla. Both girls noticed that her mother had avoided her question.

At last, the gates of Thornwood Manor loomed into view. In the dark, the mansion resembled nothing so much as an enormous, crouching wolf, with gabled eaves forming ears and the glass-paneled solarium for a tail. In its solitary hideout amidst the woods, its antiquated and slightly shabby elegance gave it a menacing, predatory seeming. Camilla loved it dearly.

Disembarking from their carriages, the children milled about close to their mothers, for it was difficult to see in the dark and the fog, while the entourage of maids, butlers, nannies, porters, and other domestics who had accompanied them unloaded several weeks’ worth of trunks, hatboxes, suitcases, and sundry luggage from the carriages and relocated them to the house.

Camilla followed her mother as she sailed through the heavy oaken doors into the house, leading the way with the confidence of a highborn noblewoman returning to her ancestral manse. The other mothers came in a line behind them, scattering into small groups to seek out their rooms. By longstanding tradition Lavinia and Camilla had the best rooms, with a view overlooking the back gardens and the hedge maze. The manor grounds carved enough of a space between the trees for the rising moonlight to reach them, and in the silvery light of the waxing moon the maze, with its walls of spiraling hedges over which the tops of undiscovered sculptures and gazebos were just visible, looked tantalizingly mysterious. Camilla, who had been too young to be allowed inside on her last visit, couldn’t wait to explore it in the morning. 

At bedtime Agnes slid a long-handled pan of coals from the fire between the sheets on her tall bed to warm them against the draftiness of the old house before allowing Camilla to climb into it. She burrowed gratefully under the covers, feeling the warmth begin to spread through the heavy layers of blankets cocooning her. 

As she fell asleep amid the creaks and shuffles of the old house settling around her, she wondered how long the vacation was expected to last. She had noticed, as her things were unpacked, that her summer clothes had been brought along, although it was only early April. The idea of being away from home for so long tugged a thread of unease at the back of her mind, but she was tired from the long journey, and the thought was soon lost to sleep.

*

The next day Camilla set out on an expedition into the maze, with Roxana, Laurent, and Avery in tow, each carrying a lantern against the gloom. 

“Come on!” shouted Avery, “I heard there’s treasure at the middle of the maze that’s been buried there a thousand years!”

“I’m gonna beat you to it!”

“Finders keepers!”

The boys sped off, jostling each other, into the labyrinth of hedges. Roxana snorted. “Like this house has even been here for a thousand years. And even if there _ was _a treasure,” she said doubtfully, “it’s not like those two clods would ever be able to find it.”

“Maybe we’ll find it!” suggested Camilla brightly, “Come on!”

“Yeah, right. If there’s treasure, I’m gonna find it on my own.” 

At the next intersection, Roxana deliberately chose a different path from hers, so that Camilla found herself exploring alone. After the initial sting of her sister’s rejection, she decided that that was all right. The maze was full of little secrets to find, and she wanted to be able to enjoy the discovery of them at her own pace. Around one corner she came upon a tiny garden of hellebore and bluebells; around another, a crumbling, moss-covered stone bench; around another, a fountain of black marble in the shape of a rearing, winged horse, long since dry. Although she had not been walking for very long, the shouts of her brothers had quickly been absorbed into the fastness of greenery around her, and apart from the rustle of the breeze through the hedges, it was surprisingly quiet and still. From time to time she thought caught the sound of scuffing gravel underfoot on the path behind her, or the swinging light of a lantern, but when she turned to look, she always found herself alone. She wished Samantha were with her. The warm, trusting softness of her little sister’s hand in hers had always given her courage.

Eventually the path opened up onto a large circular rock garden, bordered by beds of pebbles of different colors laid in spiral patterns that emulated the shape of the hedge maze that surrounded them. In the center of the garden was a kind of sculpture with a huge triangular arm, green with patina, atop a flat copper disc. Inlaid in the ground around it was a ring of worn stone markers engraved with numbers like a clock face, only they weren’t arranged at even intervals like a clock. Camilla approached it curiously, holding up her lantern to get a better look. As she did, she saw the shadow of the arm fall across the number markers, moving from one number to the next as she swung the lantern.

“Well, that’s got to be the least useful thing in Nohr,” drawled Roxana’s voice behind her, “Imagine building a sundial in a country where there’s never any sun!” Camilla turned. Her sister was standing by the path, half-shadowed in the light of her lantern. As she came forward something fell nonchalantly from her hand and rolled to the border of the garden. Camilla noticed that it was a rather hefty chunk of the marble bench she had passed, still covered with moss.

“What’s a sundial?”

“Didn’t you pay attention in lessons?” She pointed to the greening copper arm. “That’s used to tell time. When the sun shines, the shadow points to the time on the ground. Really simple. Only there’s never any sun in Nohr.”

“Does it work in moonlight?”

“I mean . . . maybe. I think maybe only when the moon is full, otherwise it gives the wrong time. Still pretty useless around here.”

“Then maybe it’s not a sundial.”

“Huh? I just told you, that’s what it is. Look, it’s got the numbers and everything.”

“Maybe it only looks like a sundial. Maybe it’s really something else disguised to look like one.” 

Crouching down, she shone her lantern over the stone disc. At the base of the arm she found the edges of a few engraved letters, unreadable through a thick crust of dirt and moss. After scouting the gravel for a good-sized pebble with a sharp edge, she knelt and began to excavate the inscription. Roxana came to help her, her usual attitude of bored detachment giving way to eagerness.

“Maybe it has been here for a thousand years, after all,” she grunted, chipping away at the layers of accumulated grime. After a few minutes of digging, the two girls sat back to survey their handiwork. Camilla read it aloud.

_“What time remembers all else will forget _ _  
_ _ For none can turn back time.” _

She fingered her lower lip thoughtfully. “What does that mean, I wonder?”

Roxana tossed her digging pebble moodily away. “I bet it means that the treasure is here, but it’s been so long that no one remembers how to get to it.”

Camilla stood and brushed the dirt off her hands. Approaching the sundial arm, she braced her hands against it and began to push. It did not move.

“What are you doing?” Roxana demanded scornfully.

“I’m . . . turning back time,” Camilla explained through teeth gritted from the strain of pushing against the unmoving statue. She felt it budge marginally, and lowered her head in determination. Amazed to see her making progress, Roxana came to lend her weight. It was old, and heavy, but a year of battleaxe-training and wyvern-riding had made Camilla strong for her age, and little by little the sundial arm began to revolve backwards with a slow grinding of metal against stone. Then, with a dull thump, it seemed to lock into place and would go no further. From beneath their feet came the rumble of a long-slumbering mechanism groaning into wakefulness, and then the numbered stones dropped one by one around them, counting down into a staircase that curved down into the earth.

Forgetting for a moment that it was Roxana and not Samantha beside her, Camilla clasped her sister with a gasp of delight. “Look!” Roxana stiffened in her arms, then pushed her away irritably. 

“We’d better find the treasure before the boys get here,” she said. Retrieving their lanterns, they descended into the darkness. The staircase proved too narrow to go side by side, so Camilla, being the elder, went first, holding her lantern high. By its feeble illumination they beheld a long corridor with stone walls and a packed earth floor. Dark doorways punctuated it on either side, some of them closed, all of them mysterious. The air had a still, musty smell, of damp earth and things left undisturbed for a long time. 

The closest doorway opened into a large, circular room. The flickering light cast eerie shadows, stretching and shrinking the shapes of sinister objects surrounding them as it swung from Camilla’s hand. Chains hung from the low ceiling, ending in rusty shackles that dangled above their heads, and iron rings and hooks protruded from the crumbling mortar of the walls at intervals. A wooden table was placed against one wall, with a collection of cruel-looking tools laid out upon it for some unknown purpose: knives, pliers, clippers, and other things unidentifiable to the two girls. A potbellied iron grill stood at the center of the room, the coals inside long crumbled into ash, with the handles of a pair of iron pokers sticking out of it as though still waiting to be heated.

“What is this place?” Camilla asked, not daring to raise her voice above a whisper.

“I don’t like it,” replied Roxana in an equally hushed tone.

They retreated to the hallway, with its rows of unexplored rooms. “Come on!” Camilla whispered encouragingly, “Maybe the treasure room is this way!” Catching hold of Roxana’s hand, she started down the passage. This time, Roxana did not pull away from her, but followed her sister closely, vigilant for anything that might spring out of the darkness.

Barred iron doors lined the passageway, each enclosing a tiny closet-like space. Each one they passed was empty, but it was easy to imagine something being there, just out of sight in the dark as soon as the sphere of lantern light slid away. “I bet this is where the ghosts come from,” Roxana muttered.

The thought gave Camilla pause, but her curiosity to see what was ahead won her over. “Just a little further,” she persuaded. The passage ended at a rotting wooden door with a high, barred window set into it. Letting go of Roxana’s hand, Camilla tried the handle, but found it locked, or stuck. She stood on her toes and lifted her lantern to peer into the darkness beyond, but could not see very much. “Bring your light over here,” she said, but the light and Roxana were already retreating down the passage at a sprint.

“Roxana!” Camilla rushed after her, but in the dimness she stumbled on the unevenly packed earthen floor and fell to her hands and knees, nearly dropping her lantern. Her heart lurched as she heard the oil inside it slosh, and her light guttered alarmingly. “Roxana, wait!” she cried, frantically righting the lantern. It still glowed, but a good bit of the oil had leaked out onto the ground, where it burned brightly and then flickered out. Scrambling to her feet, Camilla ran after her sister as quickly as she dared. To her horror, she arrived at the end of the hall just in time to see the stone steps retreating up into the ceiling.

“Roxana!”

It had to have been a mistake; Roxana must have accidentally tripped a mechanism that caused the stairs to retract. Any minute now she would manage to push the sundial arm back and let her out. She waited, breathless, for the stairs to descend again, but nothing happened. Perhaps Roxana wasn’t strong enough to move the sundial on her own. She wondered how long it would take for her to find her way out of the hedge maze and return with the mothers to help her. She wondered if she would even remember the way back. The thought of waiting alone in the dark, with a rapidly burning lantern and no idea of when, or if, rescue would come, nearly made her burst into tears.

Then, through the pounding in her ears she heard a sound, faint and far away, that drained the hope from her entirely. Safely above the earth, Roxana was laughing.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“Roxana!” Camilla shouted, her voice hitching on a sob of fear. There was no response. “Roxana, come back!” She drew in a deep breath to yell again, louder this time, but the close, musty air made her cough. From above, there came no sound. She supposed Roxana had run off and disappeared into the hedge maze again. Somehow, Camilla doubted she had gone to fetch help.

“Mother!” she cried out, without hope, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. The stone walls returned the thin and childish sound of her voice back to her, mockingly.

The hall truncated abruptly in a dead end, with only a scattering of recently-disturbed earth from the retracting stairs to suggest a way out. A search of the walls turned up what could have been a switch to lower the stairs, but it was so rusted as to be immovable. Reluctantly, she went into the side chamber, where the unsteadily flickering light caused sharp shadows to jump and lurch threateningly about her as she lifted her lantern to survey the room for anything that might be useful to her predicament. Her knuckles brushed against one of the hanging chains with a rattle, causing her to flinch back in fright. 

She contemplated picking the lock on the hallway door with one of the oddly-shaped tools from the table, except that she had no idea how to pick a lock. Books never seemed to go into detail about important things like that. Finally she pulled one of the iron pokers from the grill and started grimly down the narrow hallway again, past the rows of shadowy cells with the poker gripped tightly in her hand like a club.

The timbers of the far door were damp and splintering with rot and age. Setting the lantern down, she wedged the tip of the poker in a gap between the warped wooden boards and leaned on it, with all the force her eleven-year-old body could exert. The timbers creaked and groaned and then gave way with a gratifying shower of splinters. A dreadful, thick smell of decay and wet earth leaked through the opening, but she continued hacking and prying and stabbing and kicking at the door until there was a jagged hole just big enough to fit herself into. She squeezed through it, although her volume of petticoats made it difficult, and in the end her skirt came away with a regrettable rent in the front.

Camilla picked up her lantern, now burning dangerously low, and ventured into the corridor beyond. The sickly, musty odor grew so oppressive that she had to hold her handkerchief to her face as she continued, but there was no point in turning back. There was no way out that way. She did not know how much longer her lantern would burn, but she guessed that it wouldn't be very long.

She found the passage even smaller than the one she had left, with a ceiling so low she might have touched it by jumping, had she wanted to. She had no such desire, however, for the weak light in her hand shone slickly over the damp, pungent mildew coating the stone walls and ceiling. A blunt intersection at the end of the hall provided her with a choice: to turn left, or right. She swung the lantern from one narrow passage to the other and then, aware that every moment of hesitation was burning away her light, followed the left-hand path.

It was the wrong choice, for before long the hall ended in a creaky door, and behind it a close, rough chamber, with no other way forward. The room’s only feature was a small iron grille set into the floor, with hinges on one side like a trapdoor. Beneath the grille was darkness of an impenetrable inky blackness. The packed earth floor sloped slightly down to it like a funnel, as though it were a drain for all the darkness in the room.

Cautiously, Camilla crept to the mouth of the hole. She did not particularly want to know what was inside, but at the same time she found herself irresistibly drawn to it, as though she was being pushed by an invisible hand. Bending down to look, she swung her lantern out to illuminate the narrow shaft. Then she sprang back with a squeak of shock, accidentally taking in a much deeper breath of the stifling, fetid air than she wanted, and stumbled back against the slimy wall. Deep at the bottom of the pit, the lantern light had caught on the ghastly gleam of bone. 

She edged her way back to the open doorway, keeping as far from the pit as she could, as though a slip could cause her to fall through the grille into the forever darkness beneath it. Returning to the intersection, she took the other path, half-running in her eagerness to get away from the trapdoor, and to outpace her dwindling supply of light. She noted with hope that the tunnel seemed to be sloping upwards, and followed it on stumbling feet, trying not to notice how dark it was getting and how alarmingly her shadow jumped around her as the lamp oil burned itself out. She was within sight of a bend in the passage when the last of the light went out with a hiss, plunging her into absolute darkness.

Her heart froze. She could see nothing, and hear nothing but the sob of her own breathing. A childish, insistent part of herself wanted overwhelmingly to drop down to the floor and cry until the situation improved, but another part of her realized, with disappointment, that that would not help. She had to keep moving, or she would die down here and become only another pile of bones for someone else to discover. Abandoning her useless lantern and reaching out her arms, she took a tentative step, and then another, and another, until her trembling hands came in contact with the damp stone wall. She followed it, pushing herself along the wall for guidance.

Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, she stumbled up against a stone step, and a wall that gave a muffled, wooden echo when she thumped into it. It was a door. Blindly she fumbled for a handle, and closed both of her hands around it. It did not budge. With a shriek of desperation and fury, she yanked on it, and at last the rusty latch yielded to her and the door swung towards her with a creak of protest. Stepping over the sill, she blundered straight into the dusty folds of some heavy cloth. 

She found herself in a wine cellar on the inside of a door that had been concealed by a moth-eaten tapestry. A tiny, high window in the cellar wall let in a pale cast of light from outside, and it was the nicest thing she had seen in a long time. Camilla made her way among the tall racks of dusty bottles until she found the cellar steps. She felt that she had been in the underground passage for so long that she must have traveled all the way back to Windmire, but when she opened the cellar door she came upon the scullery of Thornwood Manor. The kitchen fires were lit, but the kitchen was empty apart from a cook, snoozing on a grain sack in the corner.

The halls of the manor house seemed bewilderingly commonplace and familiar after her long adventure in the dark, clean and brightly lit. She could hear women’s voices, raised in light and lilting laughter, floating from the parlor in counterpoint to the playing of a harpsichord, and she broke into a run, heedless of the dirt she was tracking on the hall carpet.

The mothers were taking tea in the spacious, pretty parlor, four of them involved in a game of whist at the card table while the others gathered around the spinet, listening to Lavinia play. Their children were clustered at a small table, devouring tiny tea sandwiches and biscuits. No one noticed Camilla, standing begrimed and uncertain in the doorway, until she called out timidly.

“Mother?”

A few of the women’s heads turned instinctively in her direction, and then there arose a staggered chorus of gasps and the clink of teacups being set down abruptly in their saucers. The laughter and chatter died away. The music tripped to a discordant halt as Lavinia glanced up from her playing and beheld her daughter.

Apart from the tear in Camilla’s skirt, one of her stockings was ripped at the knee and spotted with blood from a scrape. She was covered with patches of alternating dirt, and rust, and mildew, and her hands were blistered from her struggle with the iron poker. She was a mess.

“Dragon’s breath, Camilla!” exclaimed her mother, “What in the world happened to you?”

Camilla glanced at Roxana, who was goggling at her with eyes as round and protuberant as marbles. It would be easy to explain what had happened. She was older, and her mother was popular. The other mothers would doubtless believe her version of events, even if Roxana denied it. She would be pitied, and petted, and fussed over, and Roxana would receive a thorough scolding at the very least. 

But something made her reluctant to wield the truth like a weapon against her sister. She remembered the way that Lady Primula had disappeared from everyone’s lives so soon after the assassination attempt, and the idea of the same invisible angel of vengeance descending on Roxana gave her pause.

“I was in the garden, but I . . . I got lost,” she explained, feeling very silly for it.

Lavinia left the spinet and came to her. “Gracious, darling, that was foolish of you. The others have been back for ages. Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”

She led Camilla back to her room, steering her by the one spot on her shoulder that had remained free of grime, and instructed Agnes to draw a hot bath. Afterwards, she felt better, with the dirt and muck of her misadventure scrubbed away, her ruined clothes exchanged for a clean smock, her blistered hands and her scraped knee salved and bandaged. She was brought a cup of sweet, milky tea and a plate of toast and jam, and spent the rest of the day reading quietly by the fire in her own room, insulated from the curiosity of her siblings and the gossip of the other mothers. 

But that night her dreams were crowded with the memory of a close, oppressive darkness, and a lightless pit from which no one could hear her cries, and the choking reek of rot and damp earth. She awoke in a shaking, sweaty panic with a scream that brought her mother from the next room, bearing a lamp. 

“Camilla! Whatever is the matter?”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she gasped tremulously, sitting up, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” The blankets were in upheaval around her, and one pillow was on the floor.

She expected her to retreat in irritation at being so roughly awakened, for there was no one else here to impress with a performance of motherly concern, but Lavinia came to her bedside and set the lamp down. “Goodness, you are positively soaked with sweat. Are you ill?” Pouring a little water from the ewer into the basin on the washstand, she began to bathe her heated face with a cool, damp cloth and an attitude of tenderness.

“N-no. I’m all right. It was just . . . so dark. And there were . . . things down there, and I was calling and calling, but you couldn’t hear me.” She turned her face into her mother’s shoulder, wanting to hold on to her closeness for as long as it was offered. Lavinia smoothed her hair with a soothing hand, although as always she was careful to avoid touching Camilla’s dragon horns.

“Shhh. There, there. You’ve just had a nightmare. Poor thing.” 

She let her go before Camilla wanted her to, but it was all right. With an efficient briskness her mother righted the pillows, tugged the bunched and twisted blankets into place, brought her a glass of water, and finally tucked her back into bed. By request she left the lamp behind when she departed, burning low on her nightstand. 

But it was a long, long time before Camilla could fall asleep again. She could feel the dark pressing in around her just outside the sphere of lamplight, looming closer every time she closed her eyes. For hours she lay awake in the half-gloom, staring at the dancing flame of the oil lamp, and plotting how to get even with Roxana.

*

The next morning she put her plan into action. Taking a ruby-studded gold bracelet from her mother’s jewelry box when she was not around, she pocketed it and went to the garden shed for a sturdy rope. Outside, she buried the bracelet in a flowerbed, then dug it up again and returned it to her pocket. The next step of her plot took courage, for it necessitated going down into the underground tunnel behind the wine cellar again.

The passage seemed considerably shorter this time, lit by a lantern conscientiously topped up with oil. The discovery of the pit still filled her with dread, but she approached it and experimentally lifted up the grille. As she had expected, it opened like a trapdoor, and she laid it open on the floor and secured one end of the rope to the iron bars. Then she let the other end fall down into the pit, and went to find Roxana.

As she had hoped, she found her sister alone, indifferently plunking out a tuneless melody on the parlor spinet. Camilla ran to her, in a pretense of excitement.

“Roxana! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Roxana regarded her warily. “What do you want, Camilla?”

“You’ll never guess what I found!” 

Roxana tried to feign nonchalance, but her eyes darted to Camilla’s hand inside her pinafore pocket. “What?” she asked cautiously.

“It’s the treasure!” she whispered conspiratorially, “I found it! Look!” Producing the dirt-encrusted bracelet, she held it out for inspection. Roxana leaned over and regarded it. The skepticism in her eyes gave way to a glitter of greed. She was dragon-blooded too, after all. Camilla put it back in her pocket.

“Where did you find that?”

“Why, in the tunnel we found! There was simply _ loads _more, but I couldn’t carry it all by myself. I need your help.”

“Why do you need _ my _help?”

Camilla scoffed. “Well, we can’t trust any of the boys, can we? And if we tell the mothers they’d never let us keep it.”

Roxana fidgeted. Disdain and jealousy warred clearly for control of her face. “All right,” she gave in. “But I get half of it.”

“Fair enough.”

Carrying the lantern, Camilla led the way through the wine cellar again. “It’s this way! I found a secret passage that leads to that sundial in the garden yesterday.”

“Oh, so that’s how you got back,” Roxana replied uneasily. “Phew, it’s stinky down here.” Although she was in front and could not see her, Camilla could picture her wrinkling her nose sourly.

“It is, isn’t it. I suppose it hasn’t been aired out in hundreds of years.”

“So where’s this treasure you found?”

“There.” She pointed to the hole in the ground.

“Down there?” Roxana crept across the sloping floor and leaned over to peer into the hole, then recoiled. “You . . . went down there?”

“Of course! That’s where I found the treasure! It must have been hidden there ages ago.”

“And there’s more treasure down there?”

“Yes, down at the bottom. But you’ll need to climb down and fetch it back up. I hurt my hands climbing the rope yesterday and I can’t do it myself.” She held out her bandaged hands illustratively.

Roxana toed the edge of the pit uneasily. “I don’t know, Camilla. I don’t like this.”

Camilla shrugged airily. “Well, all right. If you don’t want any of the treasure, I suppose I’ll have to find someone who does to help me. I doubt the boys will be keen on sharing, though.”

Roxana stomped her foot. “Ugh, fine! I’ll go! But I get to choose which half is mine!”

“I suppose that’s fair. Here, I’ll hold the lantern for you.” She held it up, carefully angling her arm so that the light fell on the sides of the pit without reaching the bottom. Roxana gave the rope a few test tugs, then lowered herself into the narrow hole.

“Shine the light further down! I can’t see where I’m going!” she demanded after a few moments. Camilla moved it only a little. 

“Just a little further! You’re getting close!”

There came a damp squelch as Roxana’s feet met with the bottom of the pit. “Ugh! It’s muddy down here!”

“It’s not too bad. Look around! The treasure should be right around there!” She began to withdraw the rope.

Sounds of Roxana squishing about in the mud echoed up the stone sides of the pit. “I can’t see anything! Hold the lantern down!”

Obligingly, she held it out at arms’ length so that its light beamed down into the center of the hole, illuminating Roxana, the pit, and the skeleton. Her sister gave a gratifying screech of terror and flung herself in the direction of the escape rope, which, of course, was no longer there.

“Camilla! Throw the rope down, I want to come out.”

“Why?” asked Camilla placidly, “Didn’t you find what you wanted?”

“This isn’t funny, Camilla! Throw the rope down!”

“I didn’t think so either, yesterday, but _ you _certainly did.”

She lifted the trapdoor grille and dropped it into place with a clang of ominous finality. Then she stepped back, taking the lantern with her so that its sphere of light no longer spilled into the mouth of the hole.

“Camilla!” Roxana shrieked, “You bring that back! I’m going to tell Mummy what you did, and then you’ll regret it!”

“How? She doesn’t know you’re here. No one knows you’re here except me.”

“I’m _ sorry _,” wailed Roxana, beginning to sob, “Please let me out.”

Camilla hesitated. She had thought that getting revenge would make her feel righteous and vindicated, but really she just felt bad. While she was still angry at her sister, the sound of her crying tugged at her heart. For the first time, she was glad Samantha was not with her. She would have been horrified to see what Camilla was doing. 

“What was the rock for, Roxana?” she asked at last.

“Wh-what?”

“That big rock you were carrying, when you were following me in the garden yesterday. Tell me what you were planning to do with it, and I’ll let you out.”

“. . . I don’t know, it was just a rock.”

“Are you sure?”

There was silence from the pit. 

“I see,” said Camilla, and began to walk away.

“Camilla?” wavered Roxana’s voice from the depths of the hole, sharp with terror. “Camilla, come back! I’m sorry! Mummy told me to do it! But I won’t tell her about this, I promise! _ Please _don’t tell your mother!”

Camilla paused, wondering why, in the grip of panic, Roxana’s fear of Lavinia had superseded her fear of being left in the skeleton hole. 

“Are you there?” Roxana’s voice, thin and plaintive now, with all of its customary smugness scrubbed from it by fear, echoed up to her. “Please, sister! Don’t leave me in here!”

She really had had no intention of leaving Roxana in there forever, but she found herself unable to bear the guilt of tormenting her any longer. Camilla returned and opened the hatch. Letting the rope down, she took hold of the other end of it and helped haul her sister out of the pit.

Roxana struggled out onto the earthen floor, refusing Camilla’s offer of an extended hand. Her dress and stockings were befouled with mud and slime, and her face was a mess of grime, and tears, and snot. Seizing the lantern, she brushed roughly past her and ran back along the passage. Camilla followed the swinging glow of the retreating light back to the house.

The two girls did not know it then, but the pit they had found was an oubliette, a place to conceal things, or people, intended to be forgotten. Neither of them forgot about the incident, however, although neither of them ever mentioned it again, not even to their mothers.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camilla mentions the Carnivale (as well as the mansion here) in her Boo Camp dialogue. It took me a little while to realize the play on words; it’s supposed to be pronounced carni-vale, like “carnivore vale.” IT’S A TERRIBLE PUN.

A few days later the four bravest children set out to explore the woods, armed with sticks for fighting any roaming monsters they might come across. The Woods of the Forlorn were rumored to be populated by the Faceless, a species of hulking, ogre-like brutes summoned long ago by dark magic and set loose in the forest when their conjurer had grown careless, or perhaps dead. None of the children had ever seen one, but they were half-eager, half-fearful to discover if they were real.

Roxana led the way, swinging her stick brazenly at low-hanging branches. Behind her followed Laurent and Avery, boasting aloud to their sisters about how each of them was going to defeat the biggest Faceless. Camilla came last, trying with only moderate success to remind the boys to stay on the path. They dashed back and forth, stopping to pick up interesting-looking pebbles, or bigger sticks, or peer into the surrounding foliage for monsters, or jostle each other.

“Look,” she said at last in exasperation, and pointed into the woods. “Do you see that bog?” Not far off the path, the higher ground sloped down into a flat expanse of opaque muddy water from which the trunks of the ancient trees grew, black with damp. Some of their limbs were so heavy that they bent all the way down to touch the noxious muck, which gave back no reflection.

Laurent shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

Stooping down, Camilla selected a pebble of her own and cast it out into the bog. Instead of skipping, it struck the surface of the thick mire and disappeared with a _ plop_, leaving not even a ripple behind. “If you fall in there, you’ll be sucked right under and no one will ever see you again. We probably wouldn’t even be able to find your body.”

Immediately, the two boys began throwing rocks into the bog, watching them disappear with interest. Roxana groaned. “Come _ on_.” The others followed her, with Laurent and Avery now even more intent on pushing each other to see how close they could get to the edge of the child-eating mire without falling in.

“Where are we going, Roxy?” Laurent asked at length.

“Someplace really great. But it’s only for brave kids. I’m not taking any crybabies with me.”

“I’m brave!”

“Yeah, me too!”

“Okay. But if you wet your pants, I’ll know you’re a liar.”

Eventually, they arrived at a clearing, surrounded by a stand of squat, twisted trees. Their warped trunks gave them the eerie appearance of having faces, contorted into grotesque snarls in the light of their lanterns, and their branches curled like claws.

“This is the Carnivale,” Roxana announced grandly, “It’s said that the trees here are possessed by dark magic, and when the moon is full, they come to life and _ eat people whole_.”

“We shoulda brought Bertie along,” sniggered Avery, “We could feed him to a tree. Or that wimp Azura. I bet she’d start singing the way she does when she’s scared.” Clasping his hands in front of him, he warbled a few notes in a derisive falsetto, then snorted. “What a weirdo.”

“But the full moon’s tonight, Roxy!” exclaimed Laurent in awe.

“I know, you dolt. That’s why I picked today to come here. It’s evening now. We’re just in time for moonrise.”

The two boys looked around in fascination. Camilla tried to look unimpressed, but her heart was beginning to pound, with a delighted, fearful thrill.

“Everybody stand with your back to a tree,” commanded Roxana, and the four of them did. “If you chicken out you have to spend the whole day playing with the little kids and Edgar tomorrow, like the big baby that you are.”

The punishment did not sound terrible to Camila, but she set her back firmly against the trunk of her chosen tree, determined not to be out-braved by Roxana. Ever since the adventure of the skeleton hole, their regard for each other had been expressed in the form of a tensely escalating rivalry. In the presence of the mothers, each strove to be the most helpful, the most polite, the best-behaved, with the prettiest manners. Outside of their presence, they were like feral wyvern whelps.

Roxana had, within deliberate earshot of Lavinia, inquired sweetly after the ruby bracelet Camilla had borrowed for her ruse and which she had forgotten to return, earning her a scathing reprimand later both for taking it and for bringing it back encrusted with dirt. In return, Camilla had tripped Roxana on the stairs while she was carrying a cup of tea, which may have lacked finesse as a retort but which caused Lady Beatrix to berate her for her clumsiness over her ruined dress. Later she had discovered that the novel she had been reading had “accidentally” fallen into the parlor fire. Much the same way, a large spider Camilla had caught behind the woodshed had “accidentally” found its way into Roxana’s hair. Still, the two of them tacitly refused to avoid each other’s presence, for to do so would mean conceding defeat. 

Now they waited. The boughs of the old, dense trees swayed and creaked together overhead with a sound like a broken window shutter. Vagrant rustles whispered through the undergrowth. The bog burbled wetly to itself. A gust of damp, chilly wind rushed through the glade, lifting Camilla’s hair from her shoulders, and from the surrounding trees there came a deep, hollow groan.

Laurent sprang away from his tree with a yell. Avery cackled.

“Looks like Laurie’s gotta spend the day with the _ babies_.”

“Aw, man.” Laurent sat down facing them next to the lanterns and began heckling his brother. “Look out, Avery! It’s right behind you! It’s opening its mouth! It’s gonna bite you right in half!”

“Nice try! You can’t scare me!” Avery sneered, but there was uneasiness clearly readable on his pugnacious little face. The two boys settled for making faces at each other. 

While they were distracted, Roxana reached up and bent the bough of a nearby tree downwards so that the leafy, fingerlike branches brushed against Avery’s shoulder. He jerked away from it like he had been touched with a hot branding iron. 

“Something touched me! Something touched me! Augh! Roxy!! No fair!”

Roxana snickered derisively. “Well, look who’s just a big baby too.”

“You cheated!”

“Did not! There’s nothing against it in the rules. The only rule is that you have to stay against your tree.”

Armed with this new knowledge, the two boys began trying to jab Roxana, and for good measure Camilla, with sticks in an effort to get them to abandon their posts, and were gathering up handfuls of muddy pebbles to throw when another gust of wind surged through the clearing, stirring up eddies of dead leaves and raising a sighing moan among the branches. It was exactly the sound a hungry, carnivorous tree might make. 

The boys exchanged glances. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, this is boring.”

Taking one of the lanterns, they headed back along the path through the woods.

“Shouldn’t we go with them?” asked Camilla in concern.

“Nah, they’ll be fine. Unless _ you’re _ chickening out, too.”

“I am doing no such thing.” She leaned back more firmly into the rough tree trunk. A ragged edge of bark snagged on her hair, causing her to startle a little, but she did not move. She fancied she could feel the tree breathing, but she wasn’t sure if it was just the movement of her own lungs pressing her back against the trunk. It was starting to get cold.

Softly at first, then steadily louder and louder, there arose an ominous creaking, cracking din around them. The ground began to rumble, as though from the rising of tree roots like legs struggling to break free of the heavy earth. The branches overhead lashed and flailed and sent down a rain of damp, fluttering leaves. 

Camilla and Roxana looked at each other. Both girls’ faces were white with fear but set in stubborn determination not to be the first to abandon the dare. Then there came a terrific crash, seemingly from just behind them, and simultaneously they broke away from the trees and fled. Roxana tripped on an exposed tree root and staggered. Camilla seized her arm in one hand, swept up the lantern with the other, and ran headlong into the forest, dragging her sister behind her.

More by luck than by planning, they came up behind Laurent and Avery, who were still dawdling along the path. “Go, go!” shouted the girls, and the boys needed no second bidding to break into a run.

The four of them burst out of the forest and fell onto the dewy lawn, gasping and laughing and shrieking. The boys pummeled their sisters in terrified delight. 

“What was it? Did the trees get you?”

“Was it a Faceless?”

“What did you see?”

Camilla sat up, still giggling a little breathlessly, and plucked a tangle of leaves from one of her horns. “I’m not really sure. But it sounded very big.”

“Did you see it, Roxy?”

“No,” scoffed Roxana, “I ran because _ she _ran. So I’m the winner.” Which was not strictly true, but Camilla let it slide. Roxana rotated her shoulder and rubbed her arm. “Dragon’s teeth, Camilla, you’re strong. You almost yanked my arm out of its socket.”

“Well, I could have left you back there, to be eaten by a tree, or a Faceless, or what have you.” A little hurt by Roxana’s lack of gratitude, she stood and she brushed off her skirts with dignity. For a moment, in the camaraderie of fear, it had seemed that they might be able to lay aside their grievances towards each other. But the moment had passed now. Camilla picked up the lantern and led the way back to the manor by the light of the rising moon.

*

“Elise,” sang Camilla, cradling Lady Celandine’s baby in her arms, “Baaaby Elise.” The infant looked up at her with big, bright eyes the color of wild violets and a charming, toothless smile. She reached up a chubby pink fist to take hold of one of her big sister’s dangling curls, which she brought to her face and regarded curiously for a moment. Then she tried to put it in her mouth.

Lady Celandine laughed, and took her back. She coddled her for a few minutes, leaning her cheek against the wispy hair which, encircled with a pink ribbon, was the same shade of harvest-moon yellow as her own. Then she appeared to tire of her, and handed her off to her nurse to be taken away. Camilla, who would have gladly held her baby sister for a while longer, was disappointed. She felt sorry for little Elise, too. She had a feeling her own babyhood had been like that, a mother’s pretty plaything to be cosseted, fussed over and shown off, and then sent out of sight when she was no longer amusing.

Although there was no sun that morning, most of the mothers and the two older sisters were gathered in the solarium with embroidery, lace-making, and other decorative needleworks. The boys as well as Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid were absent, having unintentionally delivered on Roxana’s planned punishment for Laurent and Avery by taking them on an outing around the manor grounds and charitably taking little Bertram and timid Edgar along. Roxana was slouched in an armchair in the corner, stabbing boredly at an embroidery sampler as a pretext, Camilla had no doubt, for listening in on the women’s conversation.

She picked up her own embroidery hoop and tucked her feet up comfortably under her skirts as she set to work. Unlike her sister, she enjoyed the work. The repetition of the needle gliding in and out of the taut muslin was soothing, and she liked to see the design she was picking out in the colored silk threads gradually blossom across the fabric, stitch by stitch. 

In the close space it proved rather impossible not to eavesdrop on the mothers, and their conversation wandered lightly from the darkness of the oppressive weather, to the crop shortages in Nohr that were making it difficult to procure certain fruits, to the failed peace talks with Hoshido that were making travel dangerous in the eastern part of the country.

“I don’t see why the King doesn’t just conquer Hoshido, and get it over with,” said Lady Klara, “It’s all they deserve, for assassinating dear Katerina like that. And surely Nohr has the superior might.”

There came a few murmurs of agreement from the circle of sewing women.

“He can’t,” Lady Beatrix, the strategist, said scornfully, “Queen Mikoto is a powerful witch, and she has conjured a magical barrier along the border that prevents any Nohrian from crossing into the country with hostile intent. All of our armies who have tried have been brainwashed into losing the will to fight, and been taken captive. None have returned so far.”

This news was greeted with gasps and little cries of dismay and indignation. “Then how are we going to fight?” asked Lady Celandine, tugging at her snarl of knotted thread that was originally intended to be lace.

“Why, with an army of the Faceless,” replied Lavinia evenly. Camilla and Roxana looked up, and exchanged glances. It was strange to hear an adult speaking so matter-of-factly about the rumors the children used to scare each other with.

“The Faceless! Those are just kids’ stories,” scoffed Lady Celandine, with the self-important air of one who has only recently stopped believing in such things.

“On the contrary, dear Celandine,” Lavinia said with a knowing smile, “They are quite real, although only those with considerable skill in dark magic are able to conjure them. Having no intent of their own, they are able to cross the barrier into Hoshido without trouble. The King was amassing an army of them in preparation for an invasion, the last I heard before we left the castle.”

For a little while, no one said anything. Camilla was surprised. She had hoped that her father's marriage to Queen Arete might have put thoughts of war from his mind. Wishing Xander were there to talk to about it, she suddenly missed him dearly. She wondered if he already knew about the Faceless army. She thought of what he might say if she told him about the haunted trees of the Carnivale, and the sundial with its secret passage and strange rooms beneath, and the oubliette she had found with the skeleton inside. The thought of telling him that she had locked Roxana in it, if only briefly, made her feel uncomfortable with herself. She doubted he would approve of that kind of cruelty, even if Roxana had started it.

A commotion from the hall outside drew everyone’s attention. Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid’s voices sailed back and forth, high and keen with anxiety. Laurent and Avery bickered, and Edgar was crying. 

“Oh, dear,” sighed Lady Beatrix, “It sounds as though _ some _little boys have been being naughty again.”

Lady Elaine rose and went to collect her sniffling son. “Why, Eddie, darling, what’s the matter? Gracious, you’re all over mud, all of you. Whatever happened?”

Lady Klara joined her. “Where’s Bertie?” she asked, “Why isn’t he with you?” The sharpness in her voice caused the others to lay aside their needlework and come crowding to the solarium doors. Lady Adelheid and Lady Lynnette stood close together with their arms linked in solidarity, their fine skirts muddied to the knees. And indeed, there were only three boys with them, one short of the four they had left with that morning. 

“Oh, Klara, it’s just awful,” sighed Lady Adelheid tearfully, wringing her hands, “I’m so sorry. There’s been . . . there’s been a terrible accident.”

“Bertie fell in the bog,” Laurent announced, his dirty face twisted into a nasty grin.

“Laurie! Hush!” whispered Lady Lynnette, muffling him against her skirts.

“Is it true?” Lady Klara demanded, “Is that true, Adelheid? Where is my son?”

“I’m so sorry, Klara,” Adelheid repeated hopelessly, “It was a terrible accident.”

“Oh, Klara,” said Lady Isolde, slipping an arm about her waist.

“Avery pushed him,” Edgar reported solemnly.

“Did not!” said Avery loudly, and a little too quickly.

“He did, Mamma!” insisted Edgar, “I saw him.”

“He’s lying!” He made a dart at Edgar, who dodged away from him with a wail, but Lady Klara seized him by the wrist.

“You little beast!” she hissed, “What have you done?”

Lady Adelheid began to cry out in protest, and Lady Lynnette in her defense, and Lady Klara in redoubled accusation, until individual voices were lost in an agitated clamor.

“Girls! Girls!” shouted Lady Elaine above the din, interposing herself between the escalating quarrel. “Shall we search the bog?” she asked sensibly.

The entire party of mothers and children followed Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid’s lead back to the woods, along with an escort of maids, butlers, and gardeners armed with long-handled rakes, window poles, and other implements. Holding lanterns, they gathered around the place where the boy was alleged to have disappeared, watching somberly as the retainers dragged the heavy mud. There was a tense, funereal atmosphere.

But the bog refused to yield its secrets. Of little Bertram, there was no sign.

Lady Klara began to sob, in a desperate, panting sort of way like an injured animal. “You did this!” she snarled, freeing herself from Lady Isolde’s arms and starting towards Avery, “You wretched little beast! You always were bullying my poor Bertie, who never did you any harm! And you!” she thrust an outstretched finger towards Lady Adelheid, who recoiled, “You never did a thing to stop him! You let this happen! Where is my son, Adelheid? Where is he?”

She made a lunge at the other woman, and for a moment it seemed that Lady Adelheid would go into the swamp as well, but Lady Isolde caught Lady Klara in her arms again and held her tightly as she struggled and sobbed. 

Avery danced out of his mother’s reach as she tried to take hold of him. “Bertie’s gone,” he shouted in a breathless sing-song, “Gone, gone, gone. Down in the mud with the slugs and the bugs.”

“Hush, Avery!” cried Lady Adelheid desperately, “Don’t be horrid!”

Avery stared about at them all with wild, glittering eyes. “Mud in his mouth. Slugs in his ears. Gone forever.” He cackled, and whooped, and capered. Then he bent over and threw up on his shoes.

His mother shepherded him back to the house, accompanied by Lady Lynnette towing along an unusually silent Laurent. The other mothers gathered around Lady Klara in sympathy, offering handkerchiefs and murmured words of comfort. Roxana and Camilla, unsure of what else to do, stood near each other, taking in the dreadful spectacle.

“Poor little Bertie!” sighed Camilla tearfully, “I _ told _those boys the bog was dangerous! They ought to have been more careful!”

“I’m pretty sure they remembered. Where do you think he got the idea?”

“What? Do you . . . do you really think he did it? On purpose?”

“Oh, he _ definitely _did it. But he probably would never have thought of it if you hadn’t warned him about the bog.”

Camilla looked at her in horror. Dread prickled over her scalp like a chill, and her chest felt tight and heavy, as though her own lungs were full of cold mud. Roxana shrugged, picked up a pebble, and slung it into the bog. It disappeared, sucked under without a trace.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Things might have eventually returned to normal, had it not been for Avery. While the other mothers and children gave Lady Klara a respectful distance to mourn in peace, he seemed incapable of leaving the poor woman alone. He followed her around the manor, alternately needling her with questions about her lost child and singing his dreadful song about the slugs and bugs. Whenever she noticed he was not with her, Lady Adelheid would come running with profuse apologies for Lady Klara and half-hearted scoldings for her son, and drag him away while he continued to ask where Bertie was, if she had seen him, and when he was coming back.

Then he, too, disappeared one morning.

Freed of her tormentor, Lady Klara seemed to brighten considerably. She emerged from her chambers clear-eyed and well-rested, greeted Lady Adelheid smilingly, as though all was forgiven, glided through the house arm in arm with Lady Isolde, laughing with her quietly, and even visited the kitchens to make arrangements for dinner. The other mothers regarded her carefully; the popular assumption was that grief had sent her around the bend, but they told her they were glad to see her looking well.

Lady Adelheid and Lady Lynnette wandered the grounds and the hedge maze, calling for the missing boy, but he did not reappear. No one mentioned the bog.

By evening he still had not turned up, and the normally lighthearted Lady Adelheid was sober and distracted with worry. Lady Lynnette tried to reassure her, while simultaneously peppering her son with questions about where his brother might be, but not even Laurent knew what had become of him. When the time came for the adults and older children to be called to dinner and the younger ones to be sent to bed, they went for once without protest. Camilla half-wished she were young enough to be sent away, too, for the mothers’ behavior made the house seem full of strangers. She thought of volunteering to go along to sing Elise a lullaby, or read Leo a bedtime story, but the babies had already been carried away by their nannies.

Conversation around the dinner table was subdued, except between Lady Isolde and Lady Klara, the latter of whom had already helped herself to more than one glass of sparkling wine and seemed in unusually high spirits. Seated next to Lavinia, Camilla pushed her dinner around uninterestedly with her fork. They had been served wild forest game and mushrooms in a savory cream sauce, wrapped in flaky pastry, which ordinarily she might have enjoyed, but the dismal events of the past few days had stolen her appetite. 

The tension seemed to have had the same effect on Lady Adelheid, for she only sat fidgeting with her silver napkin ring. Lady Lynnette laid a hand attentively on her arm. “You should try to eat something, Heidi my love,” she murmured delicately.

With a resigned sigh, Lady Adelheid picked up her fork and knife and complied. At the moment that the meat touched her mouth, Lady Klara choked noisily on her drink and had to be patted on the back by Lady Isolde. Lady Adelheid raised an eyebrow at her, then returned to her meal.

“Compose yourself, dear!” Lady Isolde remonstrated in a fierce whisper, but Lady Klara continued to titter to herself.

“Excuse me,” Lady Adelheid inquired of a server who had come to refill her water glass, “What sort of game is this?”

Lady Klara was unable to contain herself any longer. She rocked back in her chair, shaking with a flood of high, hysterical giggles. “What’s the matter, Adelheid dear?” she gasped between little hiccuping shrieks of laughter, “Don’t you recognize your own son?”

Around the table there came a clatter of silverware being dropped, and a chorus of horrified gasps and moans as the ghastly suggestion of her words sank in. Lavinia stood, her face white with outrage.

“Klara! This is monstrous!”

“A fitting end for that little monster, then, don’t you agree?” chortled Lady Klara. She waved a napkin at her, wiping her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Lavinia. I had the horrid little beast prepared specially for her. You haven’t partaken in any atrocities – _ today_.”

Lady Adelheid, who had turned the color of paste, clapped a napkin to her mouth and fled the table, gagging. Lady Lynnette, with a murderous glare at Lady Klara, followed her. Involuntarily, Camilla’s eyes were drawn to the abandoned plate, which now held all the horror and accusation of a crime scene. She shuddered, and looked away. As she did, she saw that Roxana was looking, too, but with avid fascination. She pushed her chair back from the table.

A heated quarrel was brewing into a storm across the table. Lady Celandine jumped to Lavinia’s defense over the perceived aspersion on her character, Lady Beatrix loudly called attention back to the current atrocity lying on the table before them, Lady Isolde attempted to shush Lady Klara, who continued to giggle uncontrollably, and Lady Elaine tried to calm everyone down. Roxana and Camilla exchanged uneasy glances across the table. They had never seen all the mothers in such a riot at once.

Finally Camilla slipped from her chair and left the dining room. No one paid her departure any heed. The sounds of clamoring voices faded to a distant murmur as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, where all was quiet save for the ticking of a grandfather clock on the landing, and then the full realization of what she had just witnessed had time to settle over her. She felt a little sick, despite Lady Klara’s dubious reassurances that it was not really her brother that had been served to her at the table.

Then she was seized with a fit of irrational anger at Avery for being the source of all that night’s chaos and unease, although he certainly had not meant to be. “It’s no more than he deserved, after what he did to poor little Bertie!” she whispered vehemently, surprising herself with the heat of her vengefulness. But she _ was _ mad at him, and his mother who had always brushed off his penchant for cruelty as simple boyish mischief, letting him get away with anything he wanted. She was mad at Lady Klara, too, even though she felt sorry for her, and then at _ all _the mothers for their ceaseless war with each other and the horrible things that came of it. She started to run, just to distance herself from them and the sounds of their fighting that much more quickly, even though there was really nowhere in the house to escape from it. 

Her room was dark and empty, for it was still only evening, and the fire had not yet been lit for her arrival. Not knowing where to find Agnes, she struggled out of her clothes and into her flannel nightgown on her own, washed her face and hands and cleaned her teeth with cold water, for the tap in her bathroom was reluctant to deliver anything else, and climbed up into the tall, creaking bed. She huddled deep under the covers with her wyvern doll, shivering and waiting for the heat of her body to warm the bed around her. She waited for a long time. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the stricken expression on Lady Adelheid’s face, or hear the high, eerie sound of Lady Klara’s wild laughter, and a chill would creep over her anew.

Eventually, there came a knock upon the door, and before she could answer, it opened to admit the silhouette of her mother, edged with light from the hall behind her.

“Camilla? Are you in here?” Her voice was sharp with an edge that Camilla at first took for anger, but as she sat up, letting the blankets slide away from her head, she saw her mother’s posture relax and realized that she had been worried. 

“Yes, Mother.”

“There you are,” she breathed. “Why don’t you come sleep in my room, dear? I’d feel better if you were near me tonight.” Gratefully, Camilla slid from her cold bed and came to the curve of her beckoning arm.

“Mother? Did . . . did Lady Adelheid really eat Avery?”

Lavinia’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I don’t know. No one does except Lady Klara, I suppose. I imagine what she really wanted was for Lady Adelheid to believe that she had, but who knows what lengths she went to, to achieve that.”

“But . . . that’s so cruel! Why would she do such an awful thing?”

“Grief can make a person do awful things. But this was rather beyond the pale, if you ask me.” Camilla felt her shiver, minutely. “Now come, darling. Don’t cry. Let’s not dwell on such things any more tonight.”

“But . . . all right.”

In her mother’s room, Agnes was kneeling at the hearth, tending a fire which bathed the room in a warm golden light. She cast a glance at Camilla as she climbed into the bed, then returned silently to what she was doing. Camilla burrowed under the covers and watched her go about her work, finding reassurance in the sight of an adult behaving reasonably.

After seeing her mistress readied for bed, the maid withdrew with a curtsy. Lavinia turned down the lamp and settled herself into the adjacent pillow, bringing with her the comforting scent of soap and clean linens.

“Mother?” Camilla asked, “Can we go home soon? I want to go home.”

“You’ve had a dreadful holiday, haven’t you? Poor dear.” She sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t return to the castle until the King sends for us. But I’ll write to Father and tell him you’re terribly homesick and wish to come home. I’m sure he won’t refuse you. I imagine we shall be on our way back before long.” Her tone brightened at the prospect, and she seemed already unconcerned about the high drama that had taken place at the dinner table that evening. “Now, go to sleep, sweeting,” she said lightly, and nothing more.

Although Camilla still had a great many questions about what had happened between Lady Adelheid and Lady Klara, she remembered that her mother had said to dwell on it no more, and did not want to risk her irritation. She supposed Roxana would know all about it in the morning. After the events of the past few days, she doubted whether she would ever sleep again, but the deep, soft safeness of the enclosed bed, the warmth and security of having someone lying next to her in the dark, and the even, peaceable sound of her mother’s breathing soon lulled her over the edge into a dreamless sleep. 

When, in the middle of the night, a sobbing scream echoed through the manor, waking both of them, her mother only slipped a protective arm over her and drew her a little closer. Her voice, soft with sleep, brushed over her in a soothing murmur until Camilla doubted whether the noise had been real at all, and slept again.

In the morning, Lady Klara was dead, with a long-tined silver serving fork embedded in her throat. No one was particularly surprised. Most suspected Lady Adelheid, and no one really begrudged her for it, although there was some speculation that Lady Lynnette had committed the deed on her behalf. 

What was surprising, however, was the change in Laurent. He grew into a reserved, thoughtful child, even polite at times. Perhaps it was the result of being free of the corrupting influence of his hellion brother; perhaps he merely feared he would disappear too if he did not behave.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_ May 14th _

_ Dear Xander, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you ever so much and I can’t wait to come home. It has been a few weeks since Mother sent a letter to Father asking if we might come home soon, but she has not heard back from him. I hope everything is well with him. I suppose perhaps he has been very busy. _

_ Things have been tense here at Thornwood Manor ever since that dreadful incident at dinner. The mothers have been keeping us all on _ _ very _ _ short leashes. Roxana and I went out once to play in the woods once and you would have thought we had tried to sneak off for a night of revelry in Cyrkensia, we were in so much trouble when we got back. Mother has scarcely let me out of her sight since and it has been very trying. _

_ All the mothers have been coolly polite to each other, but no one gathers together to share games, or music, and certainly not meals anymore. We all have been divided off into pairs and little groups by invisible walls, and even so, no one really seems to trust one another. I am not allowed out of the manor without Mother, but the atmosphere inside is as dark and cold indoors as it is outdoors these days. Even when we decorated the manor with wreaths and garlands of flowers and dressed up for the Spring Festival like we always do, it just felt like a performance we were putting on for the little kids, and I think only Leo and Elise were really happy. I hope you are having more fun at home. I’m _ _ so _ _ miffed that I missed the hunt for the Golden Egg and the crowning of the Spring Queen this year because I’m stuck in this horrid forest! _

_ Please give Marzia my love. I miss her and you too and I hope it will not be much longer before I see you both again. _

_ Your loving sister, _ _  
_ _ Camilla _

_ May 22nd _

_ Dear Camilla, _

_ You’ll be happy to know that I have been visiting your wyvern in the eyrie while you’ve been away. My companionship is no match for yours, however, and I’m sure she is eagerly awaiting your return. She gave my arm a little bite when I tried to stroke her neck the way I’ve seen you do, but I think it may have been her way of expressing affection. I hope so, anway. _

_ I tried to talk to Father on your behalf to ask if you would be returning home soon, but he has been rather busy recently. I fear the troubles with Hoshido have been weighing on him. He has been rather solemn and cross of late, and when I talk to him, it always seems as though he is thinking of something else in the moment. Perhaps he has not yet recalled you because he fears it is unsafe to travel. I’m sure he only wishes to do what is best for you. _

_ I’m sorry we could not be together for the Spring Festival. Queen Arete put on a gala here, and the castle was bedecked in flowers, but it was cheerless without you and our brothers and sisters here. I know how much you love to see the palace filled with flowers. But fear not, you did not miss out on the Golden Egg hunt. Father must have forgotten to tell the Queen about our tradition, because there was no hunt this year. I suppose it must have slipped his mind. He has so much else to worry about these days. _

_ Father has decided that before I am to be knighted, I must undertake the pilgrimage to Notre Sagesse, as he did. I shall be departing within the next few days and won’t be able to reply to your letters, but I promise to read them all upon my return. With luck, you too will be here by then. Until then, you shall be in my thoughts. _

_ Fondest Regards, _ _  
_ _ Xander _

_ June 30th _

_ Dearest Xander, _

_ I wasn’t planning to write again in case I returned home before you did, because it seemed silly for there to be a pile of letters waiting from me if I were also there to tell you everything that was in them, but it has been more than a month since my last and I am _ _ still _ _ here at Thornwood and I am _ _ bored__. The weeks wear on in a murky, joyless haze, one day much the same as the next. And now Father has sent you away, too. I am beginning to think he no longer cares about any of us, the way he has sent us all packing. But how exciting for you to be off to Notre Sagesse to see the Rainbow Sage! I do wish I could have gone with you. I hope you will stay safe. You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back. _

_ I daresay you’ll scarcely recognize little Leo when you do, he is getting so big. He turned three today and Lady Isolde had a little party for him, although only Lady Celandine, Elise, and I attended. For his birthday Nanny dressed him in short pants for the first time and he looked like such a little gentleman! I wish you could have seen him. Lady Isolde has kept his hair long, though, and I think she was a little sad that he won’t be wearing dresses like a baby anymore. _

_ Don’t tell anyone, but I think she’s always been a little disappointed that he wasn’t a girl. I remember that she seemed sad when she told me she believed he would be a boy, and she keeps asking Lady Celandine to hold baby Elise but Lady Celandine won’t let her. Maybe she still misses baby Grace. I feel sorry for her, but I feel sorry for poor little Leo, too! She hardly pays any attention to him. _

_ Afterwards she thanked me for coming and told me Mother was fortunate to have such a sweet daughter, which would probably be news to her. Then she petted my hair, which was nice of her, but I got embarrassed and ducked away to pick up Leo instead. I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. _

_ I do hope I shall reach you before this letter does, but until then I remain _

_ Your Loving _ _  
_ _ Camilla _

_ July 2nd _

_ Xander!! _

_ I don’t even know where to begin. My hands are trembling even now as I write this but I can’t tell if it’s from fright or excitement. Maybe both. _

_ As you know, I’ve been warned away from the woods, but today the weather was actually quite fine, and while the sun was pale, it was in the sky for once, and so Mother and I decided to go out riding. Just for a little walk around the manor grounds, nothing dangerous or even very interesting. (No offense intended to you, but riding a horse is dreadfully slow in comparison to a wyvern!) We didn’t even go in the woods, just walked the horses along in the shade of the trees at a gentle pace. _

_ Well, all of a sudden it started to get dark. That’s nothing very unusual for Nohr, mind you, but then a dense, heavy fog swirled in around us and it turned very chilly. I could scarcely see past my mare’s ears. Then a hooded figure emerged out of the fog, carrying a lantern. It was too foggy to tell who it was, or even if it was a man or woman. Mother inquired if they were lost, but her tone seemed a little ironical. I don’t think she intended to give directions. _

_ The figure did not reply, but began to mutter something in a language I didn’t understand, and I saw that they were holding an open tome. Then some sort of sigil formed on the ground between us in glowing lines that seemed to burn into the earth, and then there was a horrible rumbling that made the horses start and whinny, and then a tremendous hulking form rose out of the ground. _

_ IT WAS A FACELESS!!! _

_ I’d never seen one of the Faceless before but I knew at once it couldn’t have been anything else. It must have been twice as tall as me, built like a troll, with shackles on its arms binding them to its chest and a peculiar iron mask that covered its whole face. And it stank like a dead thing. It _ _ roared _ _ at us, which made the horses scream terribly and rear onto their hind legs. Mother managed to keep her saddle, but my horse threw me off and bolted, the poor witless thing. _

_ I’m all right, but I had the wind knocked out of me for a few moments. I saw the Faceless break its chains and start to advance on Mother in slow, lurching stomps that I could feel tremor through the earth. I wanted to cry out to her but I still had not gotten my breath back. She never lost her nerve, though. _

_ Fortunately for us, she still had the spell tome to hand that she carries with her all the time in case of emergencies, ever since we were attacked that day in Windmire. It’s funny, I’ve known she is a sorceress all my life but I had never actually seen her fight with magic before. It’s really rather beautiful, the elegant way she weaves spells, but I think I would have appreciated it more if I had not been fearing for our lives. _

_ She conjured a wreath of flame and surrounded the Faceless with it, but it blundered right through and kept shambling towards her. There was a horrible smell of dead burning flesh. She kept whipping at it with ropes of fire, though, rather like someone trying to drive back an ornery bull, until it started to bellow in frustration. Then she shouted something at it in that same harsh, unfamiliar tongue, and it stopped, and retreated a few steps, and then it turned and began to menace the hooded figure instead. _

_ I had managed to get to my feet by that point, but before I could do anything the hooded figure, in what must have been an effort to distract Mother, raised the tome and cast a bolt of ice at me. I could see it flying towards me, swift and straight and long as a spear, but I couldn’t move. Then a strange thing happened. The spell didn’t hurt me. I _ _ felt _ _ it strike me, and it felt like being punched in the chest and nearly knocked me down again, but the spear of ice bounced off me like a badminton birdie and drove straight into the Faceless and it fell down dead. (Again, I suppose.) _

_ The hooded figure must have panicked and run off into the woods because the lantern light disappeared into the fog and we couldn’t see them anymore. Mother brought me back to the manor and put me to bed even though I tried to tell her I’m perfectly fine. And I’m simply _ _ much _ _ too excited to sleep now, reliving the whole scene in my head and wondering who could have had the reason – and the means – to summon a Faceless against us. A traitorous sorcerer in the employ of the Hoshidans? A mad swamp witch? Or was it someone much closer, someone under this very roof?? _

_ But now I think I hear Mother coming, and she shall scold me if she catches me out of bed, so I shall conclude the tale of my mysterious adventure for now. _

_ With love, _ _  
_ _ Camilla _

_ July 9th _

_ Dear Xander, _

_ While I still have not solved the Mystery of the Hooded Figure, I am more and more inclined to believe it is someone in this house. The mothers spend all their time quarrelling, when they even talk to each other at all. Sadly I do not find it hard to believe that one might try to kill another with a Faceless. Who among them has the power to command one, however, remains the question. Mother had thought she was the only one versed in dark magic. She seems to suspect Lady Beatrix, but I’m not sure. I think Roxana would have a lot more to brag about if that were true. _

_ I wonder if it is true, then, that one of the mothers was behind the murder of Delphinium and Gladiolus. I remember it was said at the time that there was dark magic to it, but we never knew whose. What a dreadful thought, that there could be an evil-intentioned dark mage among us! Not to mention a poisoner, too. I wonder if it was the same person who poisoned Samantha and me all those years ago that is trying to kill Mother now. _

_ I shouldn't dwell on such things, or I shall never sleep tonight. I used to love this gloomy old manor, but I think this time I shall not be sorry to leave. _

_ Love, _ _  
_ _ Camilla _

_ July 18th _

_ Xander, _

_ I’m worried. I know you are meant to be away on your pilgrimage, but I haven’t heard from you in ever so long and I can’t help it. I wish there were some way for you to let me know that everything is all right. I miss you so and I wish I were with you. We could fight together against any dangers you may be facing. All I can do now is forge a shield for you with my thoughts and love and wish for it to reach you on the evening star. I’ve heard rumors that the war with Hoshido is getting worse, and it seems that something dreadful has happened, but the news we receive out here is so piecemeal and unreliable that even if I could get a straight answer out of any of the mothers I wouldn’t know what to believe. I hope that you are safe. Please, dear brother, be safe. _

_ All my love, _ _  
_ _ Camilla _

_ July 23rd _

_ Sister, _

_ You must return home at once. I have personally sent a convoy to bring you and the rest of our family back to the castle, as Father seems unwilling or unable to do it. It may reach you before this letter does. _

_ Queen Arete is dead. I returned from Notre Sagesse yesterday to find the castle in mourning. There seems to be some terrible secret surrounding her death, but I was unable to find out what befell her because evidently Father was keeping her under guard in her chambers during her final days and no one is now alive to tell the story, save for Father himself. Camilla, he ordered the execution of every person who witnessed her death. This is so unlike him that I have trouble even committing the words to paper. I have known him to be stern, even harsh when necessary, but never cruel or unjust like this. Something has changed him. He is not the father and king that he was when I left. _

_ In the aftermath I sought out little Azura, to see what aid I could offer to her. I fear that in all the upheaval she has been quite overlooked. The poor girl told me that she hadn’t been allowed to see her mother for days, but before that she had been speaking out against the war, apparently quite fervently, and wanted the people of Nohr to know “who the real enemy is.” I asked Azura if she knew what that meant, but she was unable to tell me. She kept asking me when she could see her mother again. It pained me deeply that I had no words of comfort to give her. _

_ Xander _


	19. Chapter Nineteen

They had been home not even an hour before Camilla found herself once again dawdling outside the closed door of the throne room. It was not where she wanted to be. More than anything she had wished to run to her big brother, and her wyvern, to throw her arms about them both and not let go until all the longing and loneliness of the endless months of separation had ebbed from her heart, but Mother, of course, had insisted that they present themselves at once to the King.

Camilla was wise enough to understand why, now. The Queen’s throne was empty again, and although it had been so for mere days, she knew Lavinia would want to seize her best chance at it. She had to be the first to make an impression on him, even if it meant skirting the edge of decency, because if she did not, one of the other mothers certainly would.

But they had found the heavy gold-inlaid door closed to them, and Lavinia did not have the authority to enter the throne room unbidden. Only a Nohrian royal could do that, and so Camilla must. It made her uneasy to impose on her father’s grief, and after what she had heard of his recent behavior from Xander, she was hesitant to see him again. Besides, she could hear him conversing indistinctly with Iago from the other side of the door and she did not want to intrude upon him.

Behind her, her mother fidgeted impatiently with her clothing, and then began to fidget with Camilla’s, unnecessarily tightening her hair ribbon and plucking at her sleeves in a way that made her sigh with exasperation despite her anxiety. In the time they had stood here waiting, she could have gone all the way to the eyrie and back, with time to give Marzia at least a quick hug. Time that was being wasted on nothing, here.

She was summoning her courage to reach out for the handle so that she could just get the dreaded reunion with her father over with when a voice slithered up her back in a familiar oily drawl.

“And what do you think _ you’re _ doing here, Miss Camilla?”

She turned in surprise to find herself looking up into the smug face of Iago. What she could see of his mouth was curled into a self-satisfied smirk, as though he had caught her in some petty mischief for which he planned to tattle on her. The sight of him temporarily suffused her nervousness with anger. How dare he address her in such a way? And how _ dare _he refuse to acknowledge her mother, as though she were not even there? She tossed one of her curls over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips in a gesture that she hoped projected enough arrogance to match his.

“I’m here to see my father.”

“The King is not receiving an audience at this time. Run along and play, little girl. This is no place for you.”

“Well, he’ll want to receive us,” she insisted, “And as a princess of Nohr, it is my right to be here.”

“An odd situation for a princess, isn’t it? Skulking about waiting for the King’s attention like a dog waiting for scraps.” He gave an airy shrug, and Camilla felt her cheeks grow hot. She hoped it made her look righteously indignant, rather than embarrassed as she really felt. “Enter, if you insist. But I shan’t be held responsible for what becomes of you if you do.” 

She had no choice but to go in then, and to push her way into the throne room herself, for he made no move to open the door before her. Beyond, it was silent. No crier announced their arrival, and gone were the crowds of laughing courtiers, the music of the minstrels, even the glow of the chandeliers. The fitful flicker of a pair of candelabra upon the far dais cast a wan, unsteady light upon the hall’s only occupant: the hunched and solitary figure of her father on his throne.

Camilla hesitated, searching the gloom for the person to whom she had heard the King speaking. At first she had assumed it to be Iago, but his appearance in the outer hall had proven her wrong. And yet, there was no other advisor to be seen, or even anyone at all. She stood uncertainly beside her mother in the long rectangle of light that fell before the open doorway, until, with a sardonic bow, Iago closed the door after them, immediately plunging them into darkness.

“Who enters?” The voice rumbled out of the gloom, in a bass growl so low it seemed to roll towards them along the carpet.

“It’s me, Father. It’s Camilla.” The resonant echoes of the empty hall of arched ceilings and marble walls returned her name to her, sounding as feeble and insignificant as she felt in that cavernous space. There was no response, but nowhere to go but forward.

A childish part of her wanted instinctively to draw back against her mother’s skirts as she had when she was very small, to slip her hand into hers and be led, timid and trusting, to the source of her fear. But in the throne room, the privilege and responsibility rested on her to lead. The familiar shushing of her Lavinia’s skirts along the velvet carpet behind her lent her a little courage as she made her way down the long hall.

Within the wavering ellipse of candlelight, the King sat alone upon the royal throne of Nohr. To his side, the Queen’s throne was not merely empty. It was gone. 

At the foot of the dais Camilla offered an uncertain curtsy, and heard her mother follow suit behind her. “We’ve come home.”

“Home,” he repeated, as though the word was unfamiliar to him.

“Yes, Father.” She ascended the steps to the throne, and then could go no further. Her breath gave a little jump of surprise back into her throat and caught there. For a moment she wondered if it had been not merely months but _ years _ that she had been away, to see him so changed, and if she would also find Xander, Marzia, even herself aged into unfamiliarity the next time she looked in a mirror. His once-fair hair beneath the ebon crown, which had been growing subtly lighter over recent years, was completely white now, but for a single dark streak in his long beard. His face was dull and colorless, edged sharply in candlelight whose shadows mapped out a pattern of new and deepening lines. He slouched on the throne as though it pained him to sit upright, grasping each of the armrests in a gnarled and clawlike hand.

His hands tightened convulsively when he saw her, and his jaw tightened like someone struggling to conceal some inner pain. His eyes fell upon her with all the warmth and recognition of a statue’s. Absurdly, she wanted to run from him the way a much younger child might from a stranger. Then his eyes softened, and light seemed to return to them.

“Camilla. Camilla, my child. You’ve returned.”

She nodded, momentarily unable to speak, then burst out, “Oh, Father! What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”

He rose, slowly, and she came to his outstretched arm. His robe fell around her as he drew her to him, enveloping her in the warmth and familiar kingly scents of fur, fine leather, and Nohrian roses, but there was something else, too, a scent that reminded her of the stagnant, damp-earth underground where Roxana had trapped her. She wanted to pull away, but her father stroked her head with his hand, his fingers lingering affectionately on her horns.

“It has been . . . a long time, hasn’t it? How I’ve missed you, little one.” He turned to her mother, as though noticing her there for the first time. “And Lavinia, my love.” Releasing Camilla, he held out his hands to her mother, who glided to him. Camilla watched, her heart glowing with relief and hope, as he cupped her mother’s face in his hands. Whatever was wrong with her father was no matter; her parents were together now, and everything would be all right.

Lavinia did not seem to have quite the same opinion. Camilla saw a flicker of unease cross her face as the King’s fingers traced the curve of her cheek, moved along the line of her jaw to her neck. She wondered if her mother no longer found her father handsome. She seemed to want to pull away, but as the hand came to rest on her shoulder, her face resumed the usual expression she wore for the King: the deferential tilt of her head, the artfully coy curve of her lips, the deft and silken glances from beneath her long eyelashes.

“Lavinia,” he said again, as though testing her name, “It gladdens my heart to see your lovely face again.”

“And mine, to see yours, my lord,” Lavinia murmured, velvetly, “How my heart has longed for you. Every night away from you was like an age spent in aching loneliness. Please, send me not from your side again! Tell me we shall be together now.”

Camilla had to bite back a smile at the performance, for she had been with her mother for much of that time away and she had not seemed to suffer from the King’s absence as much as all _ that _. She knew she was only trying to please her father by telling him what he wanted to hear, but it was still amusing to witness. As they embraced she stepped back a little and looked down at the floor, partly out of awkwardness and partly so no one could see her trying not to laugh.

“My dear Lavinia,” said the King, in the even, indulgent tone he used only for his mistresses and their children, “My own. Most fair among ladies . . . and most brazen among hussies.”

Camilla heard the transformation in his voice and looked up just in time to see his hand, which had lifted to caress her mother’s face, draw back instead and swing down in a sharp, bladelike gesture to strike it. The golden embossing on his glove caught in a flash of candlelight just before it landed heavily upon her perfect cheek. The force and shock of the blow sent her stumbling back, her grace stolen from her as she fluttered for balance on the edge of the dais, and then fell.

“Mother!” For a moment Camilla was unable for a moment to process the horror and suddenness of what had happened. Then she flew to her, taking the dais steps in a series of leaps that nearly sent her tumbling to the bottom of them, too. “Mother, are you hurt?”

“Begone, harlot,” the King intoned over her, in a voice that curled in an audible sneer, “Your charms and wiles beguile me no more.”

Lavinia was struggling to regain her feet and her composure amid her volume of skirts, but she shook off her daughter’s helpful hands and rose, gathering herself up and straightening her spine in a gesture that, despite the wrinkled gown, the mussed hair, and the bruise that was beginning to darken her cheek, seemed in her anger to exude an air of greater regality than that of the King above her on the dais.

“Father, how could you?” cried Camilla. With the light of the candelabra behind him, her father’s face was no longer visible to her. He was only a cast-shadow figure looming over them, implacable and unreadable.

“Leave my sight,” he commanded, with a dismissive brush of his hand.

Lavinia said nothing, but she executed a deliberate, rigid curtsy, and turned to depart. Camilla ran after her, beginning to cry. Behind them, the sonorous echo of the King’s cruel laughter resounded at them from every angle of the vaulted marble hall.

*

Returned home from his pilgrimage, Xander was at last a knighted cavalier in the service of the King. At fourteen he had grown broad-shouldered and tall, confident and skilled in a way that made Camilla feel pudgy and clumsy in comparison when they trained together. His busy schedule made it harder and harder to squeeze in training sessions, but he managed to make time to meet with her for a little while every week for tea or cocoa, and conversation. 

“Do you know when Father will be coming back?” Camilla asked, on one such occasion. He had left the castle again, although this time it was not on an errand of madness, as far as they knew. He had gone to the dukedom of Cheve, on Nohr’s southern border, to discuss peace with the Hoshdian king in neutral territory.

“No,” admitted Xander.

In truth, Camilla felt better with him gone. She picked up a butter cookie and swirled it thoughtfully in her cocoa. “He’s been so strange lately . . . he’s so cold and distant. It’s like he hardly even knows us anymore.”

“He is taking the Queen’s death very hard. But you’re right. I’ve known him to be proud, and sometimes stern, but never cruel before.”

“Mother and I went to see him,” Camilla confessed, in what was almost a whisper, “To try to cheer him up. But he sent her away. And he . . . he struck her. He’s _ never _done that before.” She did not like to remember the incident, and it hurt to put it into words, but she felt that Xander should know, somehow. Her father had come to Lavinia’s chambers that night, bearing gifts and apologies, but the memory of it still chilled her. Nothing was the way it had been before. 

The submerged part of her cookie broke off and sank soggily into the cocoa. She set the rest of it down on her saucer, no longer wanting it. Xander was looking at her gravely. 

“No,” he agreed. “That isn’t like him at all. He would never have hurt a woman he loved. But . . . I’ve seen him behaving cruelly towards his subjects as well. A few days ago two farmers, husband and wife, came to court seeking his aid. They said they had come on behalf of their village, that the summer crops were failing and they feared there would be no harvest. He only derided them for laziness, and told them they ought to have worked harder if they expected to eat this winter. Then he sent them away.”

Camilla’s eyes filled with tears. The cocoa and cookies on the table between them seemed like a sin of terrible indulgence. “But why? Why is he being like this?”

“I don’t know,” Xander said meditatively.

“I’ll bet it’s that awful Iago!” Camilla said with sudden vehemence, “I never trusted him. I’ll bet he’s telling Father to do all sorts of horrible things.”

“Perhaps . . . But I don’t think anyone could really make Father do something against his well.” 

“Do you think maybe . . . maybe if he’s going to have peace talks with the Hoshidans, does that mean he’s getting better? Maybe he’ll try to open trade routes again. Maybe this means he’s coming to his senses, and everything will just go back to normal!”

Her brother reached across the table and covered her hands with his. “I hope so, little sister.” But he did not look convinced.

When their father returned a few days later, he arrived instead at the head of an army marching in grim triumph from a field of battle. He looked down at his two eldest children when they came to greet him with a dour expression in a gaunt, grey face from which any kindness they had once known was gone.

“Father,” asked Xander, holding the reins as he dismounted his horse, “How went the peace talks with King Sumeragi?”

“There will be no peace,” the King replied impassively. Bölverk, his great dragon-wing axe, was strapped to the side of his saddle, its fearsome blade dark with the aftermath of a battle.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” said Camilla, “It’s such a shame that the Hoshidans didn’t want to negotiate!”

“There were no negotiations.”

The two siblings exchanged uneasy glances. King Garon then turned back to his tall black horse and lifted down something from his saddle that they had not noticed until then, a small something bundled in an overlong travel cloak. He set it upon the ground.

“Xander, Camilla. This is your new sibling.”

Camilla leaned down in curiosity and gently, so as not to startle its wearer, she eased back the hood. She found herself looking into the wide eyes of a little girl, no more than five years old. Her hair was the color of moonlight on snow, and the eyes staring from her pale face were as red as winter berries. She looked up at her with a vague expression, not so much fearful as very tired, the look of someone who has seen such horrors that she has no emotion left to feel fear. It was dreadful to see in the eyes of such a little child. Camilla’s lonely heart went out to her immediately.

“Oh!” she breathed, “What’s your name, darling?”

The child did not respond. “That is Corrin,” the King said, from far over her head.

“But, Father . . .” said Xander uneasily, “Whose child is this? Doesn’t she belong to someone?”

“She belongs to Nohr, now,” replied King Garon, with a grim smile that was terrible to behold. Then he walked away, paying no more attention to his children gathered together on the courtyard cobblestones.

“Something awful has happened,” said Xander, “No one’s parents would just give up their child.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” Camilla replied quickly. She preferred not to think about the horrible unknown circumstances that had brought the mysterious child to her. “You heard Father. She’s ours now.”

“Camilla . . .”

“Come on, sweetie,” she said to Corrin, putting her arms around her and lifting her up, “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.” The child allowed herself to be carried, limp and heavy as a babydoll.

They brought her to the castle kitchen and set her down before the hearth. The cook, with a curious glance at the newcomer, left for the larder to fulfill Camilla’s request for honeyed oatcakes and milk.

Camilla removed the cloak, revealing a pretty dress of Hoshidan style, light blue with a delicate pattern of morning glories and a broad sash that gathered into a large, elaborate bow behind her back. Or at least, it had been pretty once. Now it was spattered rather ominously with dark, rusty stains. Her little feet were bare.

In the firelight Camilla could see now that her ears were oddly shaped, pointing through her hair in a way that gave her a fey appearance. Her eyes had slit pupils, like Marzia’s. And . . .

“Oh, Xander! Look!”

The child had a tail. A dragon’s tail, with a pattern of smoothly interlocking silver-white scales, ending in a flourish of leaf-like fins.

“A dragon child,” marveled Xander, “Are you a manakete, Corrin?”

“It must be a sign of dragon blood,” Camilla whispered excitedly, “She’s like me!” None of her other siblings had dragon horns like hers, and certainly none of them had tails. “Do you think perhaps she _ is _related to us?”

“There is dragon blood in the royal family of Hoshido, too . . .” mused Xander carefully, “I have heard tell of a dragon princess, but I assumed it to be a title. And none named Corrin, as far as I can recall. There’s High Prince Ryoma, Princess Hinoka, Princess Kamui . . .”

The child’s eyes brightened for the first time, and she looked up at Xander expectantly in a way that made Camilla uneasy. Fortunately, Cook arrived at that moment bearing a tray of oatcakes and a pitcher of milk, which she set nearby on the scrubbed wooden counter and then made a pretense of tidying up, while clearly keeping an ear on the trio of children.

Camilla spread one of the cakes with butter and honey and gave it to Corrin, who seemed unsure of what to do with it. She held it gingerly in both hands as though it were a pet mouse someone had handed to her, and did not bite into it.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Camilla asked in concern, kneeling beside her.

Corrin did not reply, other than to hand the oatcake back to her. Clasping her hands to herself, she wobbled a little on her feet, swaying her tail for balance. She looked uncertainly around the kitchen, and up at the two older children. Still, she said nothing. “I wonder if she even speaks our language,” remarked Xander.

“She’s probably just very tired. Who knows what she’s been through. Poor baby.” 

“Something terrible. Something terrible must have happened at Cheve. If this is a child of the Hoshidan royal family . . . what has befallen King Sumeragi and Queen Mikoto?”

“Well, I don’t want to think about that right now,” Camilla snapped, “There’s nothing _ we _can do about it, is there? All we have to worry about now is Corrin.”

“What are we going to do with her? Who’s going to take care of her?”

“I will!”

He chuckled. “Meaning no offense, sister, but you’re eleven.” She glared at him defensively. “I just don’t think we’re ready to be parents. She isn’t a pet. This is a big responsibility.”

“Well, it’s _ our _responsibility.”

Standing up, she offered her hand to the little girl. Corrin regarded it for a moment, then slipped her tiny, soft, slightly sticky hand into hers. A familiar glow of warmth and tenderness spread through her, radiating from her heart in trembling pulses. For a moment the little hand almost could have been Samantha’s. “I’m taking her home with me,” she said decisively.

She led Corrin back to her mother’s apartments, speaking to her reassuringly of their surroundings, of the Rose Wing and its inhabitants, of the warm bath and cozy bed that awaited her. Outside her door she paused. She was not sure what her mother would think of Corrin, or what Corrin would think of her mother. But she had to be brave, for Corrin’s sake. She led her inside.

“This is where I live,” she explained, “Here’s the foyer, and here’s the parlor, and . . . this is my mother, the lady Lavinia.” She felt Corrin’s hand tighten in hers as Lavinia’s gaze swept from one child to the other. “Mother, this is Corrin. She’s my new sister.” Lavinia laid aside her book and sat up on the sofa. 

“Is that so?” she said carefully. She seemed to be testing the waters, trying to evaluate the situation. “Your father has returned from Cheve with a new woman, I take it? How unfortunate for her.” Her fine cheekbone still bore the shadow of the King’s heavy hand, although she had done her best to cover it up with makeup.

“No, Mother,” Camilla reassured her quickly, “Just Corrin.”

“I see. And who _ is _her mother, then?”

Camilla twisted a lock of her hair reluctantly around her finger. “Um . . . I think . . . well Father didn’t _ say _, but . . . I think her mother might be Queen Mikoto.”

“The Hoshidan witch-queen? Dragon’s teeth, why in the world would he bring her child here? What has happened? Is the Queen dead?”

“I don’t know! But that doesn’t matter! She’s mine now, Father gave her to me!” She put her arms protectively around Corrin, who wriggled uncomfortably.

“All right, dear, don’t be so defensive. I’m certainly not going to take her from you. I have to wonder, though, what your father is up to.” Turning her attention to Corrin, she held out her arms invitingly. “Come here, little thing, and let me look at you,” she purred, in an irresistibly honeyed voice. Camilla instinctively felt drawn to her herself, but she did not move. Corrin, however, let go of her at once and toddled into her mother’s arms. 

Lavinia lifted her up and set her on her lap, in a pantomime of maternal fondness. She looked her over with the scrutiny of an art appraiser, taking note of her elfin ears, her pale hair, her strange eyes, her dragon’s tail. “Well, now. Isn’t this interesting? I’d known the Hoshidan royals are carriers of the divine dragon blood, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” The child’s dragon eyes caught on the sparkle of the sapphire pendant hanging from the lady’s white neck, and she reached out for it. Lavinia let her. Corrin yawned, and leaned against her with a tired sigh.

Camilla tightened her hands in her skirts. She thought of the ribbons she had worn to conceal her horns until they were too big to hide because her mother had hated the sight of them, of the notched shears she had intended to have them cut away with before her father had saved her. Her heart, which had been so light only minutes ago, sank under the weight of a heavy jealousy, although she was not entirely sure whether it was Corrin or her mother that she envied.

Lavinia stood, lifting Corrin with her. “Come. You’ve had a long day, haven’t you? You must be tired. You shall have a nice bath and a nice sleep, and you can tell me all about it in the morning.” She carried her from the room. Unheeded, Camilla followed them.

The Hoshidan robes were exchanged for an old nightgown that had once been Camilla’s, and Corrin was tucked securely into her bed, surrounded with plush dolls so she wouldn’t be lonely. At bedtime Camilla came to join her, and found her sleeping sweetly with one arm around a stuffed horse and the other flung over her head. Her mouth was open slightly, revealing the nubs of tiny, sharp-pointed canines. Nothing, not even the cocoa-and-cream bunny, had ever looked so adorable.

She climbed up next to her under the covers, and Corrin rolled over and snuggled up to her with a sleepy sigh. Camilla’s happiness glowed within her like embers, so warmly that she could not sleep. She had a little sister again, a sister all her own, and all of Nohr to share with her. She could show her the wyverns, and the secret lilac bower in the gardens, and the ballrooms and statue galleries and mirrored halls of the castle. And when she was a little older, they could go out into the world together and visit all the places Camilla had dreamed about but never seen for herself yet, haunted woods and far mountains, crystal caves and hidden springs. When at last she slept, she fell asleep smiling.

In the small hours of the night, however, she was awakened by a despondent wail that half startled her out of her skin. Corrin was flailing about next to her, tangled up in the sheets and a struggle with some imaginary enemy. 

“Papa!” she howled, “No! No!”

Camilla shook her awake. “Corrin! Wake up! You’re dreaming!”

The child sank back into the feather pillows and stared about herself with wide eyes, breathing hard. Her pupils were huge and dark, filling her eyes like drops of ink. “Mama? Where’s Mama?”

Camilla’s heart tightened. “She’s not here,” she said regretfully.

“Bad man,” explained Corrin in a tearful quaver, “A bad man hurt Papa and tooked Kamui. He did like this.” Spreading her tiny fingers, she reached her hands up to Camilla’s face and made a grasping gesture.

“Shh, shh. You were dreaming,” Camilla said, uncomfortably. She didn’t want to admit it to herself, but she could easily picture the “bad man” of Corrin’s narrative with her father’s face. “There’s no bad man here. You’re safe.”

“Where’s Mama?” she asked again, and began to sob. 

“Oh, sweetie. Shh, don’t cry. It’s all right.” She took her in her arms and held the hot little body close against her own. Corrin stiffened, then wrapped her arms tightly about her neck and clung to her as she wept. Camilla petted and soothed her as she had always wished to be, and let her cry. “Don’t be afraid,” she murmured into her tumbled snowy hair, “Camilla is your big sister now. And I’ll always keep you safe, I promise. You won’t ever have to be alone.”

Corrin sniffled, and leaned back to study her face in the dim firelight. “Big sister?” she repeated.

“That’s right. Big sister is here.” 

She snuffled again as the fit of crying petered out, and let her heavy little head fall against Camilla’s shoulder with a shuddery sigh, coming to rest just over a heart that belonged to her, irrevocably, from that moment on. 

“There,” Camilla said softly, “Go back to sleep. It’s all right.” Then, on a sudden inspiration, “Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?”

“Okay,” said Corrin, and hiccupped.

She had only ever known one, and it seemed a lifetime ago that she had heard it last. Closing her eyes, she reached back into a memory of warmth, and security, a gently plucked harp and the love of a mother who was not her own. She remembered.

“_All over the shadowed land _  
_ Night is falling, night is falling. _ _  
_ _ Singing out into the dusk, _ _  
Stars are calling, stars are calling . . .”_


	20. Chapter Twenty

The years that Corrin lived at Castle Krakenburg were the happiest of Camila’s life. She followed her big brother and sister everywhere, delighting in everything Xander and Camilla had to show to her. The little dragon girl seemed happy, too; in time she seemed to recover from her horror of the “bad man,” although she never quite seemed to connect the austere presence in the throne room, whom she only rarely glimpsed from a distance, with the nightmare face she still sometimes saw in her dreams. The two sisters played together all day, and slept close together at night, with Corrin snuggled up underneath Camilla’s chin like a doll so that her big sister could be there to reassure her if she woke up frightened.

It wasn’t just that Corrin reminded her of Samantha that made her love her so, although she did, in certain endearing mannerisms – her way of putting her head to one side, hands clasped before her, and rocking uncertainly on her feet when thoughtful, the shy, trusting way she slipped her hand into Camilla’s, her dragonish enthusiasm for collecting small, shiny things. It was the feeling of being needed, and wanted, and loved in return. She had not felt so valued in another’s eyes for a long time, and that feeling was addictive.

Some months after her arrival, Corrin was summoned to the throne room for an audience with the King, and so Camilla went with her, so she would not be scared. They entered together, hand in hand. A man in Hoshidan dress stood at the foot of the dais, trying and failing not to look nervous in the presence of the ominous figure hunched on the throne despite the two Hoshidan soldiers at his back.

“You see,” said King Garon as the two girls approached, “Here is the child, alive and well. I present her to you as a show of good faith. Now, state your business.”

The man bowed low. “Thank you, your Majesty. I come on behalf of Mikoto, Sovereign Queen of Hoshido. She sends word to assure your Majesty the King of Nohr that the Nohrian Princess Azura is safe in her custody. Her Majesty wishes to enact a cessation of hostilities in order to arrange an exchange of hostages: the Princess Azura for the Princess Kamui.”

Camilla stifled a little gasp and drew Corrin against herself protectively. With a flush of guilt, she realized she had been so wrapped up in Corrin that she had not even noticed that Azura had disappeared from the castle. Shame crept hotly over her as she remembered how Queen Arete had asked her to watch over and protect the friendless child, and how she had refused. Had no one been there to protect her, then? Her heart hurt at the thought of the lonely little girl alone and scared in the clutches of the savage Hoshidans. But even so, she could not bear to lose Corrin in exchange for her. 

Her sister twisted around to look up at her in confusion. She probably did not understand many of the words that had been said, but she had heard the name “Kamui,” and Camilla’s attitude had made her worry, too.

“I am uninterested in such a trade,” the King intoned from his solitary throne. “_ Corrin _ is my child now.” He cast his gaze down upon the dragon girl, and for a moment Camilla saw the remnants of his old nature in his eyes, paternal and proud, before it was clouded over by something cruel and unfamiliar.

“Very well, your Majesty. I shall return to Queen Mikoto with your reply, although I do not think she will be amenable to it.”

Iago leaned down and whispered something in the King’s ear that caused a slow smile to crease his face. It was not a pleasant smile.

“There will be no need. I will send the message myself,” King Garon replied, rising heavily from the throne. “Camilla, take Corrin away.”

“Yes, Father,” she complied with a hasty curtsy. Whatever was about to happen, she did not want Corrin to see it. As she turned, leading her sister by the hand, she saw her father gesture, and the eight Nohrian guards positioned by the throne closed in around the Hoshidan delegation. The last thing she saw was the King lifting Bölverk down from its place above the throne. Sweeping Corrin up in her arms, she began to run. She just managed to clear the throne room doorway before the screaming began behind her.

*

The Queen’s throne had been removed from the royal dais, but that did not stop the mothers from fighting over it. If anything, the tension and backbiting in the Rose Wing only escalated over the next few years, until the atmosphere felt like the water in a teakettle just about to boil. Friendships, and the pretenses of them, dissolved in it like sugar. Lady Isolde and Lady Elaine began to snipe at each other mercilessly whenever they were in each other’s presence. Lady Lynnette and Lady Adelheid developed a deep distrust of everyone but each other and refused to speak to anyone else. Lady Beatrix began to have Roxana trained in combat techniques, should the need arise. Lady Celandine, now a mother herself since the arrival of baby Elise, ceased to fawn over Lavinia and seemed to have set her sights on her as a rival, with Camilla as competition to her own daughter.

The King did nothing to interfere. On the contrary, he seemed self-satisfied and smugly amused by the rivalries of his mistresses, and would sometimes whisper words of favoritism into the ear of a chosen woman, or disparagement against another. Of course, he believed that the fighting was all for the privilege of his affection, which anyone in the heat of the battles in the Rose Wing could see was not the case. To the mothers, it was not a game of romance. It was a game of power.

The rivalry between Lady Isolde and Lady Elaine grew so heated that, following a suspicious boating accident that almost drowned Edgar, Lady Elaine decided to leave the castle for good. Taking her son, she set out for a monastery in southern Nohr, despite reports of skirmishes with the Hoshidan army outside of the city. They never reached it, although what became of them afterwards was a mystery. Some said that they were killed by assassins along the way; some said that in the effort to avoid the warring armies their route took them too close to Mount Garou, and the vicious tribe of werewolves who dwelt there. Some even said that they left Nohr entirely and escaped to live in peace in Nestra, and that was the story Camilla wanted to believe. At any rate, no one in the castle ever heard from them again.

Lavinia, for her part, seemed to consider herself above the petty squabbling and infighting. She scarcely heeded Lady Celandine’s jealous aggressions, but Camilla could tell she was up to something by the amount of time she spent with her spells, and in her laboratory. Occasionally she would take the time to dote upon Corrin, to whom she had become known as Auntie, but the theatrical mien she adopted when interacting with the little girl, the honeyed words of endearment and the over-exaggerated gestures of affection, made Camilla uncomfortable. One day it occurred to her, in a flash of clarity: her mother was doing exactly what she had suspected Lady Phyllida of doing to her, plying her with kindness to win her trust. But she could not discern her motive for doing so.

Xander, too, seemed to be suffering more than his usual share of danger. Although he remained reticent on the subject, Camilla knew, so as not to alarm her and Corrin, news of his misadventures reached her ears by other means. She heard from Roxana an unpleasant tale of how Nestor, his retainer, had been gravely sickened by a cup of wine meant for the prince. Worse still was the fate of his other retainer, Irene, who had lost her life defending her lord against “brigands” outside of Windmire. Her wounds had at first seemed superficial, but she had succumbed to them with such dreadful suddenness that no one in the Rose Wing who repeated the story, in morbid, fascinated whispers, doubted that there had been poison involved. But whose, and what poison could do its work so swiftly and so thoroughly, remained a subject of eager discussion.

Camilla, meanwhile, being among the eldest of the surviving siblings as well as the daughter of a long-favored mistress, found herself an attractive target for malice. As a precaution, Lavinia hired a mild-eyed girl named Gretchen, a few years older than Camilla, to serve her both as lady’s maid and bodyguard. She wore her fluffy hair in a pair of bobbing buns behind her ears and also wore a pair of throwing knives under her skirt, concealed in sheaths tucked into her garters. Despite her mellow appearance, she proved the worth of her services almost immediately, for one day in Windmire when Camilla was out shopping for a winter hat and mittens for Corrin, she neatly dispatched a hostile crossbowman in an alleyway with an expertly thrown dagger to the throat before Camilla even knew he was aiming for her. It was not the last, or even the first assassination attempt she would avoid. As her childhood stumbled onward into a tense adolescence, she learned to be on her toes. Her only consolation was that Corrin, having no mother at court and no political advantage, was unlikely to be threatened.

Years went by, and Camilla waited impatiently to be knighted. At fourteen she had become eligible for both knighthood and marriage, but both of her parents seemed to have forgotten. The King was rarely seen outside of the war room, where he spent most of his time sequestered with his advisors, monitoring the progress of the Hoshidan army from afar with the aid of Iago’s sorcery. There ought to have been a debutante ball to commemorate her fourteenth birthday and her formal introduction into society, but somehow between the struggles within the castle and without it, it had fallen by the wayside. When prompted about it, Lavinia insisted that she simply couldn’t _ bear _to give her precious daughter away in marriage, which Camilla found a bit disingenuous in light of the fact that she had overlooked such an important milestone in her life, but she did not ask again. 

In truth Camilla was glad not to have to consider the possibility of suitors yet. There had always been a dim, distant expectation that she would, as a Princess of Nohr, have to get married and produce potential royal heirs in the future, and while she did enjoy the thought of someday having children, she could not imagine a husband in the scenario. Any man in her vision of a future life was only a faceless, anonymous form sketched in on the periphery of her imagination. She had never had much interest in boys, although recently she had begun to take notice of occasional pretty girls among the nobility, and the grace and finesse with which Gretchen wielded her daggers to defend her from assassins made her heart flutter. Fancifully, she wished there was a way she could be married to a girl, instead.

But what really stung was being overlooked by her father as a candidate for knighthood. She longed to be pledged to the service of Nohr, and stand alongside Xander to defend her homeland and family. She longed to swoop into battle astride Marzia, with the rush of wind and the clangor of metal against metal in her ears, and fight for the glory of Nohr. She was ready! She had trained! She could swing a battleaxe with the strength of a grown man and with greater enthusiasm, and she could control her wyvern so well in battle that she did not even need to hold the reins to direct her, leaving both hands free for her axe. She was confident that she would stand out among the best of the King’s wyvern riders, if he would just give her the chance. But King Garon scarcely noticed her.

At fifteen she was almost as tall as her mother, but instead of growing into a slender, willowy figure like Lavinia’s, the emerging shape of her body had a sturdiness to it that seemed to please her no more than her childhood pudginess had. Dance and etiquette lessons had made her graceful, but she would never be dainty. The softly feminine curves that were already starting to turn heads at court overlaid a framework of muscle. Camilla did not mind. Her strength allowed her to swing an axe, command a wyvern, and pick up Corrin with ease. She just wished her mother could find beauty in it.

“You nearly bested me that time, little sister,” said Xander, one afternoon after a hard session of training. No one else would have seemed so pleased to have almost lost.

“Someday!” laughed Camilla, shaking out the hem of her blouse to fan the cool air underneath, against her sweating skin, “Someday I’ll get the better of you.”

“I look forward to that day,” he said sincerely, “You’ve come a long way since we started training together. You could barely lift an axe then, but you were so determined.”

She sat down next to him and nudged his shoulder affectionately with one of her horns, in the same way that her wyvern did. “I had an excellent teacher.”

“Did you know there’s to be a tournament?” he asked.

“Oh?” she asked, “Corrin should enjoy that. It’s been rather a while since we’ve had anything fun happening around here.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy this once, since you and I are to be competing in it.”

“Really!” she exclaimed, “Well, that _ will _ be fun!”

“It’ll be more fun than what follows it, I’m afraid. Father wants to test our readiness for battle, for when the Hoshidan army arrives.”

“Oh, Xander! Really? I’m to fight, too? Father said so?”

“He did,” he replied gravely, in the face of her enthusiasm, “I wouldn’t be so eager for battle, were I you. This is a serious matter.”

She pushed him lightly. “You _ are _ such a worrywart,” she teased, and then his earlier words sank in, belatedly. “The Hoshidan army is coming here? To the castle?”

“Yes! Haven’t you been paying attention?”

In truth, she had not. News of the ongoing war, seeming to drag on with little progress on either side, had faded into the background noise of her life over the past few years. Reports from the far-off battlefront held her interest less than Corrin’s daily reports of her lessons, or the games she played with her brothers and Elise, or the interesting bug, or dog, or noble’s hat she had seen that day.

“I thought our armies were holding off the Hoshidan advance! How have they come so close?”

“Father has recalled our forces, apart from a token resistance. He _ wants _ the Hoshidans to reach the castle. He’s heard that Queen Mikoto herself is leading the Hoshidan army, and he wants to meet her in combat personally.”

“Queen Mikoto is coming here?” Camilla repeated softly. A chill scurried up her back despite how warm she had been from exercise. There could only be one thing for which the Queen of Hoshido would risk her armies, her own life, and even her country to march so deep into Nohr. She scrambled to her feet. “I won’t let her take Corrin away! I won’t! She’s our sister; I won’t give her up!”

He rose, and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Peace, sister. I’m sure Father has no intention of giving her up, either. I certainly don’t. If the Queen wants to take her away, she’ll have to go through both of us.”

Camilla was prepared to run home to protect her little sister that instant, as though the Hoshidan army was already at the castle gates, but the sound of her cheerful voice echoing across the training ground made that unnecessary.

“Big brother! Big sister!” Nine-year-old Corrin scampered lightly across the packed dirt of the training arena with her arms outstretched to them, the two people she loved most in the world. Her hair floated behind her in snowy waves and her feet, as ever, were joyously bare. Xander caught her and tossed her up in the air, eliciting a squeal of glee.

“What news, little princess?” he asked.

“Auntie wants to talk to you,” she said to Camilla, “She said to come see if you’re done playing with Xander and to tell you to come home.”

“I suppose I had better go,” Camilla said reluctantly, “Perhaps we can all meet for dinner later?”

“Dinner it is, then.”

“Xander! Swing me around! Please?” requested Corrin, and Camilla left her siblings smiling, despite the flutter of unease that had lit upon her heart at the pending conversation with her mother. She wondered what trouble she could be in this time.

However, upon arriving home she found Lavinia looking serious, but not displeased. When Camilla entered, she smiled at her in the ingratiating way that almost always meant she wanted something. With a gesture, she dismissed Gretchen, who had followed her, and bade her shut the door on her way out.

“You wished to see me, Mother?”

“Yes, dear. No, don’t sit down! You’re all asweat.”

“Well, I’ve just been training.”

“I can see that. Well, I do hope you’ve been training hard – I assume you’ve heard there’s to be a tournament?”

“Yes, Mother. Father wishes for Xander and me to participate,” she said pointedly, expecting her mother to object, but to her surprise, she did not.

“Yes, so I’ve heard! Beatrix told me all about it; Roxana will be competing too, you know. Beatrix and I, as well as some of the other ladies, have been invited to show off our skills in the performance rounds, but it’s you three children who will be part of the real tournament. Isn’t that exciting?” Camilla nodded, wondering what she was getting at. “You do realize this presents a marvelous opportunity for us, don’t you, dear? The winner of the tournament will undoubtedly catch the eye of the King.”

“I know,” she said wistfully. “I do wish it could be me. But Xander will win, of course. I’ll be happy if I come in second.”

Lavinia rose and came to her. Her eyes were sharp with eagerness, and her voice shed its fluttery affectation, descending to a low, serious register. She cupped Camilla’s face in her hands so that their eyes met. “No, my daughter. You must _ win _. And there is one more thing you must do besides. You must do it during the tournament, for you shan’t get another chance.”

“What? What is it, Mother?”

“You must kill the crown prince.”


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Camilla recoiled from her in horror, jerking her head free from the confining caress of her hands. “Mother, no! I can’t . . . _ kill _Xander!” 

“You can,” Lavinia said levelly, “And you will, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I will not!” 

“This is the only opportunity you shall have to get away with it,” her mother continued, as though Camilla hadn’t said anything, “Little ‘accidents’ such as these are not uncommon during tournaments. With all the combatants worked up into such a fervor, it’s not unimaginable that an untested young fighter, eager to please her father and so new to these sorts of war games, might get just a _ little _ carried away in the heat of battle, and . . .” She let the pause hang, heavy with meaning, “No one would blame her, of course. She is a princess, after all, so sweet and innocent and unused to these brutish contests of might. And she feels _ so _sorry for what happened to her dear brother. She won’t be punished.”

Camilla backed away from her, until her shoulder blades met with the parlor wall and there was no more room to get away. She felt sick. It was hard to tell which was more appalling, her mother’s proposition or the calm, premeditated way she had delivered it. “No, Mother. I won’t have any part in this scheme of yours.”

Lavinia clucked sympathetically. “Poor dear, I know this must be a lot for you to take in at once. Take some time to think about it, won’t you? But you must know, darling, it’s all for your own good.”

She slid along the wall until she found the door, half-tumbled through it, and ran blindly for the safety of her room. Bursting through the door she unwittingly startled Gretchen, who was busying herself by laying out a change of clothing for her.

“Are you all right, Lady Camilla?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” She struggled to regain her composure so she would at least appear that way.

“I’ve drawn a hot bath for you,” the maid said, with a sympathetic glance. It was all she could offer in the way of comfort, for it was not her place to speak ill of a highborn lady, particularly the one who paid her. But it was not the first time she had seen Camilla return flustered and distraught from a conversation with her mother.

Camilla accepted it, along with an offering of towels, and disappeared gratefully into the bathroom where the tub stood waiting for her full of steaming water. Yet although she scrubbed and scrubbed herself, she could not feel clean.

To avoid her mother and the tension at home, Camilla took Corrin for a walk in the gardens. Holding her hand, she led her past the dragon statue, off the pebble path and through the perennially soft, springy grass to the lilac bower where she had played as a child. She had not returned to it since Samantha had died.

“This is a special place,” she explained in a reverent half-whisper, “A secret place.” At first she was afraid she would not be able to find the gap between the bushes that would grant her entrance, and she would have to break the branches to force her way in, but it was still there, if smaller than she had remembered. Corrin slipped through easily, and Camilla followed her disappearing tail into the hedge. She came through after a little difficulty, and with her head crowned with leaves that had snagged on her horns, which her sister found very funny.

Corrin, dappled with flickering motes of sunlight that shone through the leafy walls, looked about herself in delight. “It’s like a secret castle!” she exclaimed. Sitting on her knees to see things from her height, Camilla looked around too. Everything was just as she had remembered it, as though she had been here only yesterday. Her eyes fell on something dingy white on the ground. Amid the grass, all but reclaimed by the earth, were the fragments of what might once have been a round pasteboard candy box, tied with a pink satin ribbon. She looked away.

“Mm-hmm,” she answered Corrin, “I used to play here, when I was about your age. Doesn’t it smell lovely?”

Corrin appreciatively drew a breath of the fragrant air. Camilla sat down with her back against the shaded wall and closed her eyes, listening to the soft, conversational rustling of the leaves. For a moment, she was eight years old again, escaping from the pressures of her home life into a place where adults could not find her, with her best beloved at her side.

“Look, Camilla! Look what I found! Do you think it’s treasure?” 

Camilla opened her eyes. Digging around in the dirt at the base of the bushes, Corrin had unearthed a smallish metal object, caked with rust and earth. She held it out for inspection. It was an old jewelry box with a broken clasp.

“Why, don’t you remember? You buried that there,” she said, and then remembered. Corrin looked down at the box, puzzled. “Never mind, darling,” Camilla corrected herself regretfully, “I must be sleepy. I got confused for a moment. Why don’t we open it up, and see what’s inside?”

Coming to sit next to her, Corrin pried open the stiff-rusted clasp with her thumbs and lifted the lid. Her face lit up. “It _ is _a treasure! Look!” Inside lay three dusty pebbles, two brittle feathers, a stained, faded hair ribbon, a single pearl earring, dull with age, and a handful of tarnished coins. Corrin turned them all over reverently with her fingers one by one. “I wonder who buried it here.”

“Someone important, a long time ago.” Camilla said, and her breath caught. She looked away for a moment, blinking, as the lilac flowers around her blurred like a watercolor painting. Closing the box, Corrin held it out to her, but she pressed it back into her hands. “Why don’t you hold on to it? It’s yours now.”

“Really? I can keep it?”

Camilla nodded. “I think she would have wanted you to have it.”

Corrin’s pale brows came together as she tilted her face up to her in concern. “You look sad,” she observed, “What’s the matter, big sister?”

Camilla drew her close and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re so sweet.” She gave her a gentle squeeze, although for a moment she wanted to wrap her arms around her and squish her tightly against herself the way she had with her plush wyvern when she was young, and lonely. “It’s all right. I’m not sad. I’m happy you’re here with me.”

Reaching up, she took hold of an overhanging bough, heavy with nodding bunches of lilac flowers, and shook it over Corrin’s head until her hair was bedecked with blossoms. 

“There,” she said, “Now you look like a fairy princess.”

She did not say “queen,” for it was a title that Corrin was safe from, and Camilla did not want to think of queens, or crowns, or thrones.

*

Lavinia did not mention the tournament again, but Camilla knew better than to hope that she had forgotten. On the morning of the long-awaited event she set out for the arena with Corrin, who skipped and frolicked beside her in excitement. Camilla had done her hair up in pigtails that morning with two blue ribbons, and her curls bounced cheerfully as she bounded along at her side.

The castle walls were aflutter with garlands and banners, and the atmosphere was like that of a festival. In the open courtyard, vendors were setting up their booths and tables and unloading carts of souvenirs and snacks. It was still early, so Camilla stopped to let Corrin flit from table to table, browsing the wares. She was prepared to bargain for a caramel apple or a stick of crystal candy on her behalf, but Corrin zeroed in on a display of ribbon rosettes and little felt pennants arranged in rows by color. Each of the pennants bore the black rose of Nohr as well as the name of one of the publicized combatants. Camilla recognized the names of some of the champions of the nobility she had seen compete in tournaments before. And there, inscribed upon each of the purple pennants, was her own name. Her heart glowed warmly in her chest with pride when she saw it.

There were red pennants for Xander, too, and gold for Roxana. “Look!” cried Corrin in delight.

“Which will you have? Me or Xander? Or maybe Roxana?” Camilla asked, teasing lightly, but realized at once it was cruel of her to make Corrin choose between them, even in jest. (Although it was doubtful that the little girl would throw her support behind Roxana, who had always regarded her with disdain and of whom she was a little afraid.) She bought her one each of red and purple, waving away the vendor’s insistence that the princesses have them for free.

They met Xander near the stands, where Corrin dashed up to him joyfully to show off the banners of her chosen champions. He admired them, looking pleased. Then he bowed to her courteously.

“And may I beg a favor of my lady, to carry with me into battle?”

“What kind of favor?” asked Corrin, puzzled. “Do you want me to do something for you?”

Camilla laughed. “It’s customary for a knight to carry some token of affection from his lady into battle. A handkerchief, or a scarf, or something fluttery like that.”

“Oh!” Corrin reached up to her head and untied one of her hair ribbons. “Here you go, big brother. I mean – Sir Knight.” She handed it to him, then untied the other one and gave it to Camilla. “You too, Lady Knight.”

“I’m not a knight yet,” Camilla said ruefully, but she took the ribbon and wound it around her palm, cherishing it.

“Soon,” promised Xander, “Once Father sees your performance today he won’t be able to deny your caliber.”

After securing Corrin a seat in the stands among the non-combative mothers and siblings, they made their way to the staging area.

“Good luck to you, little sister.”

“And you, brother.”

In her tent she found Gretchen waiting for her, along with her axe, sharpened and polished to a high shine, and a stand bearing a breastplate and gauntlets, the first set of armor she had ever owned. It was the same lustrous black as Marzia, and in the style of a real wyvern knight, with overlapping metal plates in the shape of stylized dragon’s scales.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” Gretchen asked as she helped her into it.

“Hardly,” Camilla replied confidently, which was not entirely true. The morning’s events were all exhibition matches, for the real tournament would not begin until the afternoon, but there was still pressure on her to perform well for her father and the crowds of cheering Nohrians. 

Her armor fit well, and she had practiced fighting in it, but she was still becoming accustomed to its added weight. Lifting her axe from its rack, she performed a few practice swings and lunges to test her balance. Alongside her usual axe there was an elegant silver one, gleaming with newness and embossed with delicate scrollwork along the blade. She set down the old one and picked it up, admired it, tested its weight, wondered if she dared to hope that it might be a gift from her mother. As she turned it the mirror finish of the blade caught her reflection, and showed it to her at an angle like someone unaware of being observed. Even in her armor, she did not look like the knight she envisioned herself to be. She looked like a young girl, pale and intimidated. She set the new axe down and picked up her old one. She was more familiar with its balance, anyhow.

The tournament opened with a parade through the streets of Windmire, to display the might and splendor of the Nohrian armies for all the people to see. They needed the encouragement, with news of the advancing Hoshidan front drawing ever nearer. Camilla knew Xander would be at the head of the column of cavaliers, and wished she could see him, but she and Marzia were back with the other fliers, the wyverns trumpeting noisily in anticipation. Her mother, too, would be foremost among the mages, riding a splendid black palfrey adorned with silk roses of gold and burgundy to match her sorceress’s garb.

The parade wound through the city streets, to the cheers of the Nohrian people. The crowds were not as robust as Camilla would have expected, however, and not everyone was cheering. Some merely stood, stone-faced, to watch. She had thought that everyone would be glad to see the King’s armies, and the promise that Nohr would stand strong even when the Hoshidans came. The applause picked up when her segment of the parade appeared, though. The wyverns, with their fierce bellows and swooping acrobatics, were always a popular spectacle.

When the armies regrouped at the castle, it was time for the exhibition games to begin. Standing next to Xander, Camilla waited at the far end of the roped-off arena grounds for her turn to go on. In pairs and singly, the champions of Nohr faced off against small groups of nondescript mercenaries hired for the event. It was not a real competition, for there was never any doubt who would win, but the point was to show off the finely-honed skills of the champions in a dramatic, stylish spectacle.

She watched armored infantry knights display their shieldwork, and mounted cavalry the fine handling of their horses, and mages the deft weaving of their spells. Lady Beatrix the strategist and Lady Lynnette the cavalier performed on horseback side by side, with no hint of the usual enmity between them, complementing each other’s spellcasting and swordplay with a brilliant display of flying light and flashing steel.

Lavinia emerged on the arena floor alone, with the presence and confidence of a diva taking the stage, to rapturous applause. Camilla did not see her often in her full sorceress regalia, but it was splendid. She wore a wine-colored velvet gown trimmed with black lace and gold embroidery that shone under the hanging lanterns. Gold gauntlets flickered with light as she wove her spells, and a black-feathered sorceress’s cape fluttered from her back like a train. A tall collar shaped like the opening petals of a black lily framed her swan-white face and neck, and behind her head there shone a gold corona, reflecting its gleam upon her violet hair. To someone who didn’t know better, she could have been a Queen.

She performed her piece with a flawlessness that looked almost careless, although Camilla knew it was not, moving her arms through the motions of her spells with a fluid, languid grace. Flowers of ice, dainty and bell-shaped, blossomed under her fingertips, then at a fierce gesture of her hand they spiraled out into chains around her two opponents and jerked them sharply to the ground. Her admirers applauded. The rime of ice continued to bloom upward into a delicately lovely tree with curling branches and snowy blossoms. Lavinia swept her hand in an arc to her face and, bending lightly forward at the waist, blew a kiss. The tree dissolved into a thousand sparkling petals that sifted down upon her captivated watchers like snowfall. The audience erupted in cheers and whistles of approval. The sorceress bowed, and made her exit amid thunderous applause.

“Well,” said Camilla, “I’m glad we aren’t following _ that _ act.”

Roxana, sulky that she would not get the chance to show off her talents alone, materialized next to them just before it was their turn. The three siblings took the field together, two on horseback and Camilla with her wyvern.

“Xander, Crown Prince of Nohr, wielder of the legendary blade Siegfried,” announced the crier as they entered the ring, “And debuting his sisters, Princess Camilla and Princess Roxana!”

Xander lifted his sword to the crowd in salute. Its dark blade was ringed with a dim crimson light of its own, burning like the halo around an eclipsed sun. Camilla had seen him wield the blade, but she had never seen it glow before. She took her place to one side of him with her axe, and Roxana on the other with a bow. Scanning the crowd, her eyes lit on Corrin’s white hair among the nobles, glowing in the lamplight. She was standing up on her seat between Leo and little Elise, waving her red and purple pennants and apparently unaware that her tail, also waving joyously, was flailing the nobleman behind her in the face. Struggling to maintain a decorous expression, Camilla raised her hand slightly and waved back. The man behind Corrin had to get up and change his seat in a huff.

The battle that followed against the three mercenaries on horseback was largely rehearsed and performative, but the crowd seemed to enjoy it. Camilla did, too; fighting alongside her siblings filled her heart with a fierce pride, even if it was only for show. She had learned to carry herself with grace even in battle, and she and Marzia knew each other so well that their movements flowed together like a well-rehearsed dance. After Roxana had taken a bow, she landed her wyvern and took hers, to a wave of unexpected adulation. People were cheering – for her especially. Taking inspiration from her mother, she blew a kiss to the crowd. They loved it.

After Camilla had left the field with Roxana, she looked back to see that Xander had not followed them. As they watched, the three mercenaries they had defeated rose and regrouped, and were being joined by more of their number, and more still, until Xander and his horse were standing opposite a small mob of twelve combatants.

“Are we . . . supposed to be out there?” Camilla asked, fearing she must have forgotten some instructions for further battle rounds.

“Nah,” replied Roxana, with a curl of her lip, “This is all so precious _ big brother _ has a chance to show off without us.”

The onlookers cheered again as the crown prince raised the sword Siegfried before him, then quieted, waiting to see what would happen. Camilla did too, her hands tight on the handle of her axe. Xander’s black horse pawed the ground in readiness, and then lunged across the field at a charge. The dozen mercenaries did too. Siegfried’s dark-shining blade flashed in the lantern light as Xander swung it, and an arc of light, sharp as a shard of mirror-glass reflecting a crimson moon, sheared out from the blade’s edge. All twelve opponents fell as though before the stroke of a scythe before the sword had even touched them.

Camilla gasped. Without thinking, she reached out her hand to take hold of Roxana, who shook her off dismissively. 

“Huh,” she scoffed, but there was a note of thoughtfulness beneath her usual veneer of sarcasm, “So _ that’s _what he went to Notre Sagesse for.” She nudged Camilla with her elbow. “Look, your little dragon pet’s had her itty mind blown.” Then she left the lists, and ambled sullenly in the direction of her tent.

In the stands, Corrin was standing up on her seat with her mouth open in surprise, her hands with her two pennants hanging slack at her sides, making no sound. She wasn’t the only one. No one seemed quite sure what they had seen, what to make of the power they had just witnessed. It wasn’t until the crown prince bowed to his fallen opponents and they began to climb to their feet that the cheering began, and rose to a deafening roar.

Camilla let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She had not _ truly _believed that Xander would strike down so many adversaries just for show, especially knowing he outmatched them to such a degree, but it occurred to her that her father might not have had the same reservations. And she had to wonder – if Xander could strike with such force while still holding back so as not to land a fatal blow, what power could he wield when nothing stopped him?

During the intermission, she shed her armor and joined Corrin and Xander to wander the courtyard market. Camilla procured hot, spiced apple cider and iced doughnuts for all of them, despite Xander’s reminding her, responsibly, that there was to be a banquet later that evening, and the three of them idly circled the rings of merchant stalls, stopping to make conversation with the admirers and well-wishers who approached them. Camilla had never had fans before, but Xander seemed used to it, and greeted them graciously and with polite attentiveness. The onslaught of attention made Corrin shrink back against her sister in sudden shyness, however, so the siblings withdrew to the outer ring of stalls, where the crowds were less pressing.

Among the less-populated merchants’ tables they came upon a vendor selling hand-drawn caricatures of passersby. Pinned to the signboard above his stall were several ink drawings of the royal family, as examples of his work, and he had a few stacks of them for sale, as well. None of them were particularly flattering.

Xander’s eyes passed over a portrait of himself that gave a hyperbolic representation of the curliness of his hair and the seriousness of his face, and rested on a drawing of King Garon. He appeared less a man than an ogre, hunched and grasping, with a face heavily lined with age and cruelty and set in a dour frown.

“You there,” he addressed the man behind the counter. “Are you the artist responsible for these?”

“Oh! Your Highness! Er . . . yes. That’d be me.” He began to blush and fidget with his quills.

“While I respect artistic creativity, don’t you think that these are in rather poor taste? If the King saw them, I don’t think he would be pleased.” It was less a threat than a warning.

“Well, I . . . Begging your pardon, your Highness. He weren’t meant to see them.”

Camilla was scanning the row of drawings, until she came inevitably to one of herself. Her cheeks began to burn. The artist had drawn her contorted into an anatomically improbable posture, twisted at the waist so that her breasts and her bottom were equally on display, and also both grossly exaggerated. In addition, she wasn’t wearing any pants.

“This is vulgar and offensive!” Angrily she plucked the drawing before Corrin could see it and slammed it down on the countertop, causing the merchant to jump. “I should have you locked up for this insult!” The man spread his ink-stained fingers beseechingly.

“I beg your forgiveness, Princess! They’re just a bit of fun, for the common folk, you know. I meant no offense.”

Xander glanced at the drawing around her fingers, and his face darkened. “Intended or not, this is a grave insult to my sister, sirrah, and the rest of my family as well. You would do well to destroy these before anyone else sees them, and begone from here.”

The merchant fumbled to gather up his wares. “Yes, Prince Xander. Right away! Thank you, your Highness.”

Xander led his sisters away. “That’s all?” demanded Camilla, “You’re just going to let him get away with it? Father should hear about this!”

“And what do you think Father would do to him, if we told him?” Xander asked quietly. Camilla was silent for a moment. She had a feeling she knew.

“I don’t look like _ that _!” she exclaimed in indignation, “Do I?”

“No. Of course not. I only hope _ I _ don’t look the way he drew me, either.” He put his arm around her, and the other around Corrin. “Come, sisters. Let us forget about this unpleasantness. It’s almost time for the tournament.”


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Back in her tent, Camilla was surprised to find her mother waiting for her.

“There you are, sweeting!” she sang, “You performed wonderfully today. I always knew you were a splendid fighter.”

The praise rang a bit hollow, for in truth, her mother had never seen her fight before, as she disdained to visit the training grounds whenever Camilla was practicing and had never been interested to hear her talk of what she was learning. But she did not want to start an argument, so she only said, “You were wonderful too, Mother. Everyone loved you.”

Lavinia brushed off the compliment with affected modesty, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorially murmur. “Now, dear. I’ve secured a place for you in the final tournament round, so you needn’t worry. You’ll be guaranteed to face the crown prince.”

Camilla withdrew from her, frowning. “If I’m such a splendid fighter, why didn’t you trust me to get there myself?”

“It’s just a bit of extra insurance, darling. I know you’ll do well. And I know you’ll remember what we talked about, hmm?”

Camilla looked down at the tent floor and scuffed her foot uncomfortably. “I doubt I’ll win against him, anyway,” she muttered noncommittally, “Everyone knows he’s the strongest of us all.”

“Why, didn’t you notice the lovely present I sent?” She gestured to the weapons rack where the new silver axe shone, unused. “I had it made just for you for your special day. I _ do _ advise you to use it in the duel against the crown prince; it’ll give you an edge.”

Camilla regarded the axe. She of course had no intention of killing Xander, but the thought of winning against him in the tournament was enticing. Surely such a feat would earn her father’s attention. He couldn’t possibly withhold knighthood from her any longer after that. Contemplatively, she removed her gauntlet and unwound Corrin’s ribbon from her hand. She knotted it securely to the haft of the finial spike above the axehead, and tied a neat, pretty bow.

The afternoon’s dueling tournament had eight competitors, facing off against each other in three rounds. Battles were waged until first blood drawn, or a combatant dropped his or her weapon. All combat was conducted on foot, for balance, but participants were allowed to choose weapons according to their own preference.

In the first bracket, Camilla fought against a sword-wielding nobleman a few years older than herself. The axe her mother had given her proved heavy, but powerful, and once she accustomed herself to the heft of its swing, she found herself enjoying wielding it. When the swordsman acknowledged defeat to her, however, the victory felt hollow. She could not know whether she had won on account of her own skill, or her mother’s interference.

As the spectators lauded her victory with whistles and cheers, she found herself thinking of the crude drawing of herself she had seen in the market, and wondered how many of them were cheering because they had seen it, too. Her ears grew hot at the memory of the kiss she had blown to the audience. This time, she only departed the field with a demure curtsy.

From the lists she watched Xander in his second round of combat, against a young noblewoman with hair like blue and pink spun-sugar candy who fought with manic, joyous abandon. Camilla watched her with enjoyment, admiring the reckless delight she seemed to take in fighting, so different from her brother’s guarded, careful precision. Xander won, but he, too, seemed impressed with the lady’s performance.

Camilla’s second opponent was Roxana. The two sisters bowed to each other, a trifle ironically, and then Camilla readied her axe while Roxana drew a pair of short swords from dual sheaths on her back. She twirled them around her hands with a flourish, and one corner of her mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. Then they advanced on each other.

Camilla was the taller and the stronger of the two, but Roxana was fast and quick on her feet. For all her indifference to sewing she could handle her small blades with the skill lightness of an expert embroiderer with a needle. Camilla only just deflected the inward thrust of a sword with her axe handle, and by the time she whirled it around to strike, Roxana was no longer there. She swung again, but her sister danced just out of reach, then darted in with a stab under her arm that glanced off her armor.

“Mummy knows what your mother did,” she hissed in Camilla’s ear, “But you’re not taking me down without a fight!”

Taking advantage of her proximity, Camilla knocked her off her balance with a slam from her axe handle, and then whipped it around in her hands and followed the strike with a spearlike thrust to her shoulder from the beribboned silver spike, but she missed again. She rolled her tense shoulders irritably as Roxana circled her, seeking an opening.

“On the subject of mothers,” she retorted in a low voice, “my mother knows what _ your _ mother did to poor little Delphinium and Gladiolus.”

Roxana’s face darkened. “Everybody knows those babies were killed by dark magic!” she scoffed, “It’s _ your _ mother who is the dark mage!”

“She’s certainly not the _ only _ dark mage at court. So I wonder, what did Lady Beatrix offer Iago to do the deed for her?” Roxana’s lips curled in a grimace, and Camilla realized that her calculated guess had struck a nerve. She lunged forward with her sword, but anger had made her imprecise, and Camilla turned it aside.

“You think you have all the answers, don’t you? But you don’t really know anything about what goes on around here. Your mother keeps you tied so tight to her apron-strings that you’re just as dumb and ignorant as baby Elise.” She thrust, and missed, again. “Well, while we’re talking about the sins of our mothers, why don’t you try asking _ yours _ about what happened to precious little Samantha?” She barked a derisive laugh at Camilla’s puzzled expression and tossed one of her red-gold curls over her shoulder. “You never did figure that out, did you? You _ are _ dumb.”

Camilla advanced on her, gripping her axe tightly in both hands. “You’re lying!” she snarled through gritted teeth.

“Oh, someone’s been lying to you, all right, but it isn’t me!” She feinted to the side and then darted in, but Camilla anticipated it this time and knocked her hand away. Sweeping the axe over her head she brought it down upon Roxana’s raised arm, biting straight through the hardened leather armor of her gauntlet. Roxana gave a cry of pain and indignation, and the thin edge of the silver axe blade came away red.

“First blood drawn by Princess Camilla!” shouted the crier, “Princess Camilla is the victor!”

Deafened by the roar of applause, Camilla lowered her axe until the ends of Corrin’s ribbon brushed the ground. Her mother had been right. She did get carried away in the heat of battle. The blow had gone straight through Roxana’s armor, and if she _ hadn’t _ struck her somewhere she was wearing armor, she shuddered to think what might have happened.

Roxana sulkily left the field without the customary courtesy bow in her direction that etiquette demanded, cradling her injured arm. Camilla lifted her arm and waved distractedly to the cheering spectators, but she couldn’t enjoy their applause. She returned to her tent, feeling like she was moving in a dream.

Her heart sank when she found her mother awaiting her outside the tent. “You’re doing wonderfully, darling! Of course, I knew you would. Come inside and rest a moment.” She guided her to a folding canvas stool to sit down, then took the silver axe from her numbed hands and returned it to the rack. Gretchen brought her a towel and began combing and smoothing her disheveled hair while she mopped her sweaty face and neck with it.

“Here, dear. Drink some water.” A cup was pressed into her hands, and she drained it without thinking to avoid looking at her mother. She did not want to think about what Roxana had said, but the thought kept rising unbidden to her mind no matter how many times she tried to squash it down.

“Are you tired?” asked Lavinia, “There’s only one more round to go, though it _ is _ the most important one. You’ll do fine, I’m sure. I _ know _ you will.” Camilla twisted the towel in her hands. Her mother had outright demanded that she assassinate Xander; it was not a stretch to imagine that she might have murdered Samantha too. But for what reason? Because she was a favorite of their father? Or simply because Camilla had loved her? “Darling, all you all right?” her mother asked, solicitously, “You’re not looking well.”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

“It’s probably nerves, poor thing. Gretchen, why don’t you take her outside for a breath of air?”

She let herself be escorted out of the tent, glad not to be sharing the same space as her mother any longer. The cool air of early evening did feel nice against her heated face. She allowed her maid to fan her with a handkerchief for a minute, then waved her away. The tournament no longer held any interest for her; she only wanted to find Corrin, sweep her up in a hug, and go home. But she still had one more performance to put on.

Too soon, it was time to go on again. When she returned to the tent, she found her mother waiting for her, already holding the silver axe. She pressed the heavy weapon into her hands. “Here you are, sweeting. I _ know _you’ll make me proud.” Although her lips were set in a warm and doting smile, her amethyst eyes glittered with undisguised sharpness.

Camilla and Xander met in the center of the tournament ring, from opposite directions. They saluted each other, and advanced. For a few moments it was just like their training sessions, and the familiarity of the old routine lifted some of Camilla’s anxiety from her. But the oceanlike roar of the audience, rising and falling like waves with every strike and block, jolted her into awareness of the present. The stakes were much, much higher this time.

They battled on, trading strike for strike, but both of them unwilling or unable to land a hit on the other. Risking a glance at the stands, Camilla could see their father, seated alone in the royal box above the others. He was watching them intently. Under the heavy weight of his gaze, she began to fight with renewed ferocity. She did not want to kill Xander, she would never harm Xander, but she dearly wanted to _ win _, and let her mother deal with her disobedience however she would.

Xander seemed to notice her determination. She could not imagine he was growing tired, but every time the blade Siegfried deflected her axe it seemed to be with less firmness. He was yielding ground to her. And then, for a space of only a breath, he appeared to falter, and did not raise his sword to block her axe. Whether it was by accident or design, she could not tell, but he would let her have the victory.

She lunged forward, holding the axe like a pike, and as she did she noticed, absurdly, that while she could see Corrin’s blue ribbon flying from Siegfried’s hilt, it was missing from the spike of the silver axe. Had it come undone in her battle with Roxana? No, she had still had it when she returned to her tent, and she had made certain to tie it fast. Someone had removed it in between battles. Someone had tampered with her axe. But who? And for what purpose? Gretchen had been with her when she went outside. The only person who had been alone with it was her mother.

Camilla tilted her lunge by twisting her landing foot to the side, so that the momentum carried her past Xander as though he had evaded her, and deliberately did not recover her balance. She threw her arms wide as though to catch herself, let her fingers open, and dropped the silver axe.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

“Princess Camilla’s weapon touches ground! Prince Xander is the victor!” the crier bellowed. The noise of the crowd exploded around them in fireworks of cheers and shouting.

Camilla, on her hands and knees in the grassy field, bowed her head so that her hair curtained her face and she would not have meet the iron gaze of her father.

“Are you all right, sister?” She turned her head to look up at her brother, and only him. Xander was holding down his hand to her, his serious face set in an expression of concern. She took it, and let him help her up.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she gasped, breathing hard, “I couldn’t do it. Oh, Xander. I couldn’t do it.”

He folded her in his arms, prompting a wave of appreciative applause from the audience. Ignoring them, he patted her consolingly on the back as she tightly returned the embrace and leaned her face into his shoulder. “It’s all right. It was your first tournament, after all. And you gave an exemplary performance!” He did not understand her meaning, and she was glad of it. She wanted him never to know.

They left the field together, and waited by the ropes to be called to receive their prizes. The noblewoman with the spun-sugar hair Xander had fought earlier had taken third, and they conversed lightly while Camilla anxiously scanned the crowds for her mother. She found her in the crowd after she took her place on the winner’s podium below her brother, standing amid the other nobles, her face impassive and maddeningly unreadable. Camilla instead shifted her gaze next to her to Corrin, who was bouncing up and down with joy as she clapped. She smiled.

Then she saw the austere, ermine-robed figure approaching the podium, and her breath caught. She had not thought the King of Nohr would be presenting awards to the victors himself. He was trailed by Iago, who sidled after him carrying an armful of rose garlands.

“In third place,” announced the crier, whose voice was a little hoarse from a day of shouting, “Lady Peri.” King Garon wordlessly placed one of the garlands around the neck of the noblewoman, who gave a little squeal of delight.

“In second place, Princess Camilla.” Camilla held her breath as the King approached her. He lifted a garland of roses and she bowed her head to receive it. As she did, she felt a little tap on one of her horns, and her father’s voice spoke, close to her ear.

“Well done, my daughter.”

Straightening, she looked at him, and for a fleeting moment she saw a face she recognized, stern but proud, and loving. Then as she watched the warmth left it like a closing shutter, leaving only a cold, indifferent mask. He moved on to Xander, and crowned him with a circlet of laurel leaves, without a word.

Lavinia met them as they descended, indulgently letting herself be towed along by Corrin. The little girl released her to fly to her brother and sister and fling her arms around them both.

“You were wonderful! I could see everything! It was amazing!”

Camilla’s mother approached, and offered them both a gracious smile. “Congratulations are in order, Prince Xander.”

“I thank you, Lady Lavinia. Camilla put up an excellent fight, as well. You should be proud of your daughter.”

She smiled, but said nothing. Her silence made Camilla’s heart tighten in apprehension, knowing there were barbs behind that smile, but secretly she was relieved that the window of opportunity to carry out her mother’s instructions had closed. Whatever punishment for her disobedience awaited her later, Xander was safe.

Afterwards she went home to bathe and dress in a gown and her tiara for the evening’s banquet. At Gretchen’s suggestion, she continued to wear the rose garland, although she really wanted to hang it up in the armoire along with the silver axe and forget about both.

In the gardens she found Xander, who had exchanged his armor for a formal shirt, waistcoat, and cravat, but was also still wearing his crown of laurels, looking a little uncomfortable to be doing so. Corrin bobbed at his elbow, happily sucking a purple lollipop.

“Where did you get that?” Camilla asked, with a smiling glance at Xander.

“Auntie gave it to me,” Corrin replied, stickily.

Camilla’s blood ran cold. Seizing her sister’s startled hand, she plucked the candy from it and threw it into a nearby bush.

“Wh-what was that for?” cried Corrin, as her eyes began to fill with astonished tears.

“Camilla!” reproved Xander in surprise. Camilla whipped her handkerchief from her bodice and began scrubbing Corrin’s face and hands with it until no trace of purple remained.

“Big sister, why did you take my lollipop?” Corrin whimpered.

Camilla sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s too close to dinnertime. You want to save room for the banquet tonight, don’t you?” She leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. You can pick out _ two _ desserts tonight, anything you like. All right?”

“All right,” said Corrin begrudgingly, but her look of distrust weighed on Camilla’s heart.

“It’s just a lollipop,” Xander muttered to her as Corrin ran off to play with Leo and Elise instead, “It won’t hurt her.”

Camilla shook her head. “I know. I don’t know what came over me.”

She slipped her arm through his and they strolled along the garden paths together, enjoying the warmth of the summer night, the perfume of night-blooming flowers, and the relief that the tournament was over.

“I expect we’ll have to start preparing for the Hoshidan invasion soon,” said Xander, “That’s the next step.”

“I know,” Camilla sighed, and leaned her head against his shoulder to nudge him with one of her horns, “But let’s just enjoy tonight while it lasts.”

After a little while, six-year-old Leo ambled up to them. “Corrin is asleep,” he reported with his characteristic seriousness, “We can’t wake her up.”

“What?” asked Xander, “Is she all right?”

“Where is she?” demanded Camilla. Obligingly Leo led them to a statue of a rearing dragon. In the shadow of its outstretched wings, Corrin was curled up with her tail wrapped around herself like a cat, insensible to Elise, who was crouched nearby tickling her with a leaf.

“Torrin is asleeped!” she informed them, “Wake up, Torrin!”

Camilla knelt beside the small, white figure in the grass. Her total stillness gripped her with fear, but she tried to keep her demeanor calm to keep from alarming her younger siblings. She shook her gently by the shoulder. “Corrin, darling. It’s time to wake up.” Apart from a slight flick of her tailtip, there was no response. Camilla looked up and exchanged worried glances with Xander.

“What happened?” he inquired of Leo.

He shrugged. “We were playing, me and Corrin and Elise. Then Corrin said she was sleepy, and she lay down here and went to sleep. Right in the middle of our game, too.”

“Wake up!” shouted Elise.

Corrin stirred with a protesting whimper and pulled her tail over her face. Camilla let her breath out in a shaky sigh. She swept Corrin’s silky hair back from her face with her finger and tucked it behind her ear. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she sang softly.

“Come on, little princess,” said Xander, “This is no place for a nap.”

Still, she did not wake. Camilla collected Corrin into her arms. She was limp and heavy as only a sleeping child can be, but she settled her head into the curve of her sister’s shoulder with a drowsy sigh. She was still warm, and breathing. “I’m going to take her home,” Camilla said.

“I’ll come with you,” Xander offered, helping her up.

“No,” she shifted some of Corrin’s senseless weight to her shoulder, “People will notice if you’re missing tonight. I’m sure everyone is expecting to see you at the banquet.” He looked pained. She gave him an apologetic half-smile. “It’s all right, brother. I’ll take care of her.”

She left him, with Leo standing beside him and Elise clinging to his trouser leg, all three watching her with solemn eyes.

At home she put Corrin to bed and dispatched Gretchen to bring back Cressida the healer. She waited. Hours seemed to go by. Corrin slept like a princess in a fairy tale, still and silent and oblivious to the world around her. The maid, who had always seemed to her so competent and reliable, did not return.

Camilla took off her wilting flower garland and cast it onto her dresser. She paced the room. She sat at Corrin’s bedside and talked to her, holding her little hand in both of her own. She left the apartments and wandered the Rose Wing in search of help, but she found no one at all. Everyone was down in the Great Hall attending the banquet. She was totally alone. Finally she returned to Corrin, laid her head on the edge of the bed, and wept, in loneliness and fear.

After a long time, the bedroom door creaked open behind her. Her heart jumped and she sat up, ready to give her maid a piece of her mind for dawdling so. But it was her mother, alone. By that point Camilla would have welcomed any adult to come and fix the situation. She almost ran to her, longing for comfort and reassurances that everything was going to be all right, but something about Lavinia’s calm, expectant stillness kept her where she was. She did not seem surprised.

“Mother,” she said tremulously, not wanting to believe what that might mean, “There’s something wrong with Corrin. She won’t wake up.”

“Don’t worry, dear. It will pass.”

“I sent Gretchen for the healer hours ago, but she never came back!”

“I know,” Lavinia replied quietly, “She was instructed not to.”

“Wh-what? By whom?”

“By me. She answers to me, after all.”

For a moment there was no sound except the hissing of the fire and Camilla’s quickening breath. “_You _ did this.” Lavinia said nothing. “But _ why_, Mother? She could never be Queen of Nohr! She was never a threat to you!”

“I wanted you to see that your actions have consequences. It could have been a lot worse. Perhaps next time, you will do as I tell you.”

Camilla lunged at the serene figure in the doorway as though she were an opponent in combat. “Then it _ was _ you! Roxana told me, but I didn’t want to believe her. But it’s true. You’re the poisoner. _ You _ killed Samantha. You were jealous that Father loved her, and that I loved her. She never hurt anyone, and she never wanted anything except to be loved by her family, but you were afraid that would give her some kind of advantage in whatever cruel game you’re playing, so you killed her. And you almost killed me, too.” She wanted to strike her, with all the vengeful strength of fury, but instead she burst into tears.

Lavinia put her arms around her and pressed her close in a dotingly maternal embrace. “Shhh. There, there. My poor foolish girl. I never, ever meant to hurt you. It tore me to pieces when you were so ill because of what happened. Don’t you know that everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for _ you_?”

Camilla struggled free from her confining arms and pushed herself away roughly. “I _ am _ a foolish girl,” she cried in between sobs, “Because I trusted you, and _ loved _ you, and you’ve never even cared about me!”

Her mother’s eyes brimmed with injured tears. She let them fall with an artful prettiness, in stark contrast to the sobbing mess Camilla was making of herself. “Oh, Camilla, how _ can _ you say such things? After all I’ve done for you? All this time, I’ve kept you safe, cared for you, given you everything you could ever want. And I’ve been working _ so _ hard to remove every possible threat to you. Perhaps I have had to do some dreadful things, but it was all to ensure that nothing of the kind would befall my precious, ungrateful daughter.”

“You’ve been working hard to remove every possible obstacle between me and the throne,” Camilla shot back, “I’m not a daughter to you. I’m just a pawn you’re waiting to put into play.”

Lavinia delicately wiped her tears away with a handkerchief, before they could do any damage to her face. She did not offer one to Camilla. “If that’s the way you see things, then perhaps it is time for you to join the game. I’ve tried to protect you from the way things are in Nohr, even from the knowledge of it, for so long, but you aren’t a child any longer. I can see that now.”

Camilla turned her back to her and dropped moodily down into the chair beside the bed. “I won’t do anything for you. I don’t want any part of your plans.”

“Oh, you will,” replied Lavinia unconcernedly, “If not for your own good, you’ll do it for the good of that little dragon child you care so much about. You will fight to protect her, the same way I fought to protect you. Now, try to get some rest, sweeting. You have had such an eventful day.” She placed a kiss on the top of Camilla’s head that made her blood curdle. Then she left.

Camilla sat by the bed and cried until her tears gave way to an exhausted emptiness. Then she slid into an uneasy sleep, still sitting up beside her sister, whose hand remained as lifeless as a doll’s in hers. She knew, in her heavy heart, that her mother was right. To protect Corrin, she would do whatever her mother told her to do.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Corrin slept through the night and most of the next day, finally waking drowsy and confused the following evening. She was ravenously hungry, and disappointed to find that she had missed the banquet, but Camilla and Xander made it up to her by taking her out to dinner in the city and letting her choose the two desserts she had been promised.

After the meal Camilla drew her onto her lap and cuddled her contentedly, while Corrin, seemingly none the worse for her ordeal, swung her feet and offered her spoonfuls of blueberries and sweet whipped cream from the half-finished cake on the table before her.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely,” she sighed, looking out the window at the rainy city streets, the nimbus of fog around the streetlights, the amiable clopping of occasional horses and the slow rocking of passing wagons, “if we never had to go back to the castle?”

Xander followed her gaze. “I suppose. But we can’t stay here forever. There is much for us still to do back home.”

“I know.” She tightened her arms a little around her sister and rested her cheek against her head. “But it’s nice to pretend. How pleasant it would be, to be ordinary.”

Two weeks later Camilla found herself somewhere she never would have expected to be, or even, until a few hours prior, had even known existed. She was beneath Windmire, in a city that was a bustling underground mirror image of the capital. In contrast to the dark city streets above, lonely with rain and cold, this place was brightly-lit with hanging lanterns and populated by a noisy hubbub of passersby. She had passed through streets lined with shops and market stalls, selling everything she might have imagined and many other things she never before would have, amid the clamor of vendors advertising their wares, groups of companions chatting and gossiping, and children darting laughing and shrieking through the streets.

Following directions given to her by her mother, she had left the castle via an underground passage and made her way through the market district and into the smoky club district, passing pubs, dance halls, even a theater. Now she stood, heart pounding with anticipation, outside the unassuming back door of a certain club in a narrow side street that was probably impossible to find without first knowing it was there. Her mother’s instructions tumbled over and over in her head.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Windmire’s underground dueling scene. It is quite literally underground. Since only the nobility is allowed to participate in official tournaments, this is where everyone else comes to settle their differences, or to fight for fame, or money, or just for the thrill of it. Of course, it’s not uncommon for disgraced or lesser nobles to seek recognition there, or retribution for wrongs done. Its main advantage is that there are no rules. You are permitted to fight whomever you like, with whatever you like, and to whatever end you’d like.

“You’ll have to go masked, of course. Anonymity is allowed, even enjoyed. And you’ll need to wear something to cover that distinctive hair of yours. Don’t bring your fancy axe; a plainer one will do. You don’t want to be recognized. Go to the third door on the left in Fighter’s Row in the club district. Give the proprietor this purse – it’s your entry fee – and tell him that you’re there to attend the fox hunt. He’ll know what you mean.

“I’ve already sent an invitation to Roxana. After her defeat in the tournament, I’ve no doubt she’s itching to prove herself again. She won’t know it’s you, so that should make things easier for you, although I can’t guarantee she won’t guess. You must ensure that she does not walk away from the fight alive.”

Adjusting her mask and drawing her hood further over her head, Camilla ascended the steps and went in. She found herself in a low-ceilinged room lit by candles in sconces. As expected there was a desk with a mustachioed man behind it, and a much larger, burly man standing by a roped-off corridor in the back. Apprehensively, she approached the counter. The proprietor swept his gaze over her, lingeringly, and leaned back in his seat.

“What d’you want, little lady?”

“Um . . . I’m here to attend the fox hunt,” she repeated, feeling a bit silly, and placed the purse she had been given on the counter. He glanced up at the domino mask, embroidered with a pattern of black roses, which partly obscured her face beneath the ruffled edge of her hood.

“Heh. I see.” He opened the purse and glanced inside, then picked up a pen and scratched something in the logbook before him. “I heard Foxy Roxy was to have a specially arranged match tonight. If I’d known the challenger was another girlie, I would have advertised! All right.” He pointed to the back corridor, “That way, second door on the right. Granny’ll take care of you. Off you go, girl.”

Camilla went where she was directed, despite a growing unease. Her mother had made it sound as though this would be Roxana’s introduction to the underground fighting scene as well, but the man behind the counter sounded familiar with her. She wondered what she was getting herself into.

The indicated door shed a few fragments of its flaking black paint in response to her knock. A woman’s voice from behind it bade her enter. Beyond she found a staging room, cluttered with castoff weapons, training dummies, and assorted costume pieces. In one corner, a woman with steel-grey hair in a bun was tending to a prone and moaning figure on a cot whom Camilla guessed with a sinking feeling must be a previous combatant.

“Hold still!” she barked, and Camilla did, before realizing that the command was not meant for her. The woman gave her a swift glance over her shoulder when she entered, told her to wait, and returned her attention to her patient. Camilla’s knees wobbled a little when she saw the blood coursing over the fallen gladiator’s face in rivulets. 

“Hold still,” the woman said again, more gently this time, “You’re fine. Just hold still and let Granny stitch you up.” In a few minutes she had completed her grisly task and approached Camilla, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a wiry, no-nonsense woman whose bare arms beneath her rolled sleeves, lined with old, white scars, bore testament to bygone battles. “Scalp wound,” she explained, “bleeds like an overflowin’ storm drain, but he’ll be fine. Should be.”

“Oh.”

“Well!” exclaimed Granny, appraising her, “Aren’t you fancy? The crowds should enjoy that – if you can fight as well as you look.”

“I can,” she said with confidence she didn’t exactly feel, and unstrapped her axe – an anonymous-looking steel one – from her back.

“What’s your name, babydoll?”

“Oh . . . Rose.”

“No, no. Your stage name, the one they’re gonna shout out to get the crowds cheerin’ for.”

She straightened her shoulders. “The Black Rose of Nohr.”

“There you go! But that does have a . . . _ royal _ ring to it, doesn’t it? Heehee.” She reached up and peeked under Camilla’s hood. “Dragon whelps fightin’ for the nest, is it? Don’t worry, doll. Your secret’s safe with Granny. You’ll go on in a few rounds. You can watch a few matches through there if you like, but be ready when I call you. Would you like a drink, to steady your nerves?”

She indicated a tray of glasses and a small collection of flasks containing substances unknown on a nearby table.

“Um. No, thank you.”

Camilla tried to take her anxiety out instead on a well-worn training dummy in the corner, but the sporadic groaning from the wounded fighter on the cot made it hard to focus. She followed the sounds of combat and shouting down a short hallway that ended in an open doorway. Through it she could see a large, two-story room of shabby red damask wallpaper with a floor tiled in large blocks of alternating black and red like a chessboard. A fighting ring in the center was partitioned off with red velvet ropes, surrounded by crowds of rowdy spectators packing the room and the upper balcony. Some of them wore masks or hoods as well, and manner of dress ranged from humble to extravagant.

From behind the doorway she could catch glimpses of the ongoing battle. She watched two women dueling with broadswords until one of them lay on the ground. They shook hands, and departed, which the audience seemed to find dissatisfactory. Then she watched a white-haired young man wearing an eyepatch face off against three men with shields and short swords, while armed himself only with a bow and a smirk. Despite his one eye, he dispatched each of them with an artful deftness that seemed to border on carelessness, but not quickly. He crippled his opponents with precision shots to feet, hands, and knees first, before finishing the kill with a close-range shot to the head. Camilla found the obvious pleasure he was taking in it both disturbing and a little fascinating, but the audience seemed to be enjoying it.

She returned to the staging room and sat down on a bench near the wall, where she found a honing stone and began putting an unnecessary new edge on her axeblade. She had adamantly refused her mother’s offers of “assistance” in tending to her weapon before leaving the castle, wanting to defeat Roxana honestly, if she must. But here, in this sordid, lawless place, she wondered if her sister was as committed to fighting fairly.

Presently the one-eyed archer moseyed in from the arena entrance. “I live,” he announced, throwing his arms wide, “Come and kiss me, Granny you belligerent beauty.”

“More’s the pity, Zero you rascal,” Granny retorted, delivering him instead a slap to his grinning cheek, but she looked pleased. Directing him to a wooden stool, she brought bandages and salves and tended to his wounds.

Scanning the room, the archer caught sight of Camilla, still sitting primly on the bench. “Hel-looo,” he crooned, rising and sauntering over. Up close, she realized that he was younger than she would have guessed, perhaps only a year or two older than herself. “Haven’t seen you before. Here to fight the Fox, are you?” 

“I am, in fact.”

“Heh. Good luck, sugar. I’ve seen her make grown men squirm, to say nothing of a little girl. Maybe I’ll stick around to watch.” He leaned down as if to get a look under her hood, and then cast his gaze to the neckline of her dress, instead. Camilla leaned away from him.

“Maybe you’ll go on home, if you know what’s good for you,” Granny said, taking note of her discomfort and shooing him towards the door, “Go on, get.”

“Granny, you wound me with that lashing tongue of yours.” Zero said, placing a hand to his heart, but he departed with a bow and a smile. 

Then a bell on a cable by the arena entrance door rang twice.

“Come on, doll. It’s your turn.” The old woman made a few last-minute adjustments to Camilla’s clothing, hefted her axe into her hands, and guided her to the door. “Good luck out there, babydoll. Hope I’ll get to see you again.”

Camilla returned to the arena hallway, trailing her hand slowly along the plaster wall until she came upon the rust-colored handprint of someone who had done the same thing earlier in the night, coming from the other direction. She went to the doorway and looked out. Across the room she saw another figure in the far entrance, the lintel of which was painted white, a girlish figure like herself, wearing a black and gold dress, elbow-length black gloves, and a short cape with a hood. Her face was concealed, too, by a hammered copper mask in the shape of a fox’s face.

A loud-voiced man who seemed to serve both as mediator and announcer stood in the center of the red velvet ring. “People of the Under-city,” he shouted above the residual din, “Tonight it is my pleasure to announce a special event! In the white corner, returning to our little den for the first time since her controversial victory over the infamous Mokushu Twins, I give you . . . the Fox!”

The fox-masked girl strutted to the center of the ring, amidst a tumult of cheers, and scattered booing. Undaunted, she made a flippant curtsy and waved.

“And from the black corner, a new challenger arises! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . the Black Rose of Nohr!”

Gathering her determination, Camilla strode to the center of the ring with all of the royal dignity she could muster, chin high and shoulders straight as though she were approaching the throne of Nohr. She took her place on the other side of the announcer and gave an elegant curtsy to the crowd. They cheered, liking her already, or perhaps just eager for blood.

“Will the Fox’s wiles be sharper than the Rose’s deadly thorns?” quipped the announcer. “Combatants, take your positions . . .” They did so. “Ready . . .” The fox-masked girl drew a pair of short swords from sheaths on her back. Camilla hefted her axe in both hands. “_Fight!_”

The fox girl circled Camilla like a predator, seeking an opportunity. Camilla waited, following her movements with her axehaft held horizontally, ready to block. The Fox darted in, and she raised her axe to deflect the swords, but caught only one. The other grazed her arm, slicing open her sleeve. A burst of applause bubbled from the crowd, but this match would not end with first blood drawn. Camilla stepped back. The Fox thrust again, and again she blocked. The crowd began to murmur restlessly. They wanted to see more from her than defensive maneuvers. It occurred to her, for a moment of fleeting relief, that if she did not put on a suitably exciting display, she might be withdrawn from the match, and not have the opportunity to slay her opponent after all. But immediately she remembered her mother’s warnings, and knew she could not leave. To protect Corrin, she must kill Roxana.

“What’s the matter?” hissed the girl in the fox mask, “Are you scared? Want your _ mother?_”

She feinted to the side, then went in with a stab that caught Camilla along the ribs. She gasped. The fox girl danced about her lightly, teasing her with tiny darts and dagger-like nicks that were too swift to block. A white-hot pulse of fury began to gather behind Camilla’s eyes, thrumming in her horns, reaching out for a dragon vein that was not there. 

“Mother’s not here to help this time, is she?” the Fox whispered, close to her ear, before flitting lightly away again. 

She feinted again, but this time Camilla anticipated it and followed her with a slam to the back from the steel pommel of her axe, knocking her off balance. Before she could right herself Camilla whirled herself and her axe around and brought its blade down upon her. The Fox only just managed to deflect the blow so that it glanced off her shoulder, heavily.

They battled on, trading strike for strike. Armor was not worn in the underground arena, to even the odds between commoners and fallen nobles, so nothing protected them from the sting of each other’s weapons save their wits and reflexes. But the absence of it made Camilla feel light and swift as her wyvern in the air. Anger gave her strength, and the thought of what could happen to Corrin if she failed filled her with frantic courage. 

And to her surprise, she found herself enjoying the duel. She began to understand a little of the frenzied glee she had seen in Lady Peri in the tournament, and the smug satisfaction of the archer Zero. Her heart raced with delight at the narrow avoidance of danger every time she blocked a seeking sword thrust, and every time she swung her axe in return her blood sang with a fierce, dragonlike desire to fight, to win.

She could not see the Fox’s eyes behind her mask, but her movements began to seem fearful, and more hesitant. She struck with less confidence and precision, and when she dodged she jumped aside like a startled animal. The crowd whooped and shouted with every blow landed and every ribbon of blood spilled, but Camilla could not tell for whom they were cheering. Maybe they were only cheering for bloodshed.

The fox girl skittered away from the sweeping axe blade, then flew at her in a desperate flying leap, with both swords descending like teeth in an animal’s mouth snapping shut. They bit into Camilla’s arm and shoulder as she caught them with her axehaft, and, with a yell of rage, she shoved the other girl away from her, onto the floor. Now.

Rearing back with her axe over her head, she shut her eyes and swept the blade downwards in a cold steel arc. She felt it land, after a crack of splintering ribs, in something soft, and yielding. She opened her eyes. The girl in the fox mask lay crumpled on the chessboard floor before her, with her chest cleft open and Camilla’s axeblade embedded redly in her heart.

For a few moments she could not even hear the roar of the crowd over the sound of her own heart, pounding with exhilaration and dismay. She had never killed someone before. She had not known it would be so sudden.

She looked down at the copper fox mask, askew and spattered crimson. It occurred to her that she had never seen her opponent’s face; perhaps it had not been her sister at all. But no — there, from beneath the shadow of her hood spilled one shining coil of red-gold hair.

The announcer was waiting for her to do something. She managed to pull together enough presence of mind to wave to the audience, and then she retreated to the staging area. Granny rushed to meet her as she staggered in.

“You did it, babydoll! What a fight! They’ll be talking about that one for a while.” She put her arms around her and let her lean on a shoulder that was surprisingly sturdy. “Here, girl. You’re hurt. Come sit down. Let Granny patch you up.” She sat her down on a bench, took her axe from her shaking hands, and came to her with bandages, salves, and vulneraries, but Camilla waved her away.

“I’m all right. Thank you,” she said abstractedly. Her wounds were superficial. She felt the real damage had been done to her soul. “I just . . . I’m very tired. I’d like to go home.” She rose, brushing off the old woman’s words of reassurance and concern, and made her unsteady way to the exit.

“Hey! Little Miss Rose!” called the man at the desk as she passed. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? I heard you won your fox hunt!” Approaching, he dropped something heavy in a cloth bag into her hand. “Come back anytime! Sounds like the crowds have a new darling.”

Nodding absently, she pushed open the door, wanting nothing more than to be outside and away from this place. The longed-for breath of fresh air did not touch her face, and she remembered distantly that she was underground. Home seemed miles away, but the only way to get there was to walk, so she started out alone into the darkening streets. Hours must have passed in the dueling club, for there was almost no one about in the streets, and only a few of the lamps remained lit. The air was close and heavy, and smoky with lamp oil and tobacco. She reached up, put back her hood, and tore off her mask, unable to bear its confines any longer and no longer caring what might happen if someone recognized her. There was blood on it, and it probably wasn’t her own.

She had done it. Roxana was dead. She had done it, and she knew that in that terrible and joyous moment, she had enjoyed it.

There was something in her other hand. She looked at it, puzzled, and was mildly surprised to find she was holding a cloth purse, heavy with coin. She dropped it in the street as though it were a foul and slimy thing.

Horror crept over her like a fever chill, and nausea clutched at her throat. She did not want to be sick, she _ hated _ to be sick, but she stumbled into a nearby alleyway and quietly lost her dinner, in between whimpering sobs. Afterwards she leaned her head on her arm against the grimy alley wall and wept, wretchedly.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a ragged whisper that was heard by no one, “Oh, sister. I’m so sorry.”

Exhausted, aching, and despondent, she waited for strength to return to her. She wished for someone to come find her and take her home, but with a heavy loneliness she realized there was no one she really wanted to be found by. She could not bear the thought of Xander knowing what she had done, and her mother . . . she wondered what her mother would do if she never returned. Would she simply assume that she had died in the duel she had sent her to? Would she care enough to come looking for her? How long would she have to wait to find out?

After a time she forced herself to pull herself together, tidy her face with her crumpled handkerchief, and set off again. The knowledge that she had kept Corrin safe was the only thing that gave her the strength to find her way home.

Her mother was waiting for her in her parlor when she arrived, with Corrin asleep next to her against the arm of the sofa. She had probably only fallen asleep waiting up for Camilla to return, but the unspoken threat in the presence of Lavinia made it seem like she was being held to ransom.

“Well?” she inquired when Camilla entered. She reached over and stroked the sleeping child’s hair, in a gesture that would have appeared loving had it come from anyone else.

“It’s done,” she replied hoarsely. The tang of bile was still sour in the back of her throat. Her sleeves were stiff with drying blood.

Lavinia rewarded her with an indulgent smile. “My good girl. I know that must have been difficult for you. Come here, darling.” She opened her arms invitingly, and a deep, lonely, insecure part of Camilla was drawn to her. Despite everything she longed to go to her, to kneel beside her and lay her head in her lap and be comforted like a child, absolved of responsibility.

Instead, in spite of the sting of her still-fresh wounds and the bone-deep ache of weariness, she went to Corrin, picked her up, and carried her to bed.


End file.
